


The Plague Upon the House

by BrunetteAuthorette99



Series: The Plague Upon the House [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (And In Between They're Co-Workers), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And Frequent Bad Jokes About Worms, Background Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Elias Bouchard Bastardry and Disregard For Personal Autonomy, Character Death Fix, Chekhov's Pipe, Coping With Eldritch Horrors (With Varying Degrees of Success), Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Jane Prentiss Lives, Mind Manipulation, Sasha James Lives, Season 2 (and a Bit of Season 1) AU, Slow Burn, The Archives Staff Actually Communicating and Being Friends, Worms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2020-10-27 13:50:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 86,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20761388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrunetteAuthorette99/pseuds/BrunetteAuthorette99
Summary: The Hive dies, but Jane Prentiss survives. Sasha James lives, but the NotThem lingers.And unfortunately, the Eye has plans for both of them.





	1. All That Remains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regarding the unexpected survival of the entity formerly known as the Hive, once again known as Jane Prentiss, and the discovery and reception of her survival by the Archives staff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... so... after binging all 155 episodes in less than a month, I think it's safe to say that I am _obsessed_ with _The Magnus Archives_. And while I've been stuck in a bit of a rut lately when it comes to writing fanfiction, _TMA_ has unexpectedly provided me with an unbelievable amount of inspiration. 
> 
> (Hence: this wacky, somewhat serious, slightly self-indulgent fic. Because I love Jane Prentiss and I love Sasha James and I wish dearly that both of them had stuck around a little bit longer.)
> 
> The title was inspired by [these hilariously awful parallels](https://numinousnic.tumblr.com/post/187847815922/astronauticality-the-magnus-archives-ep-39) between certain worm-related _TMA_ lines and various Shakespeare quotes.
> 
> _ **Content warnings for this chapter are in the end notes.** _

What remains of the Hive writhes in agony.

The worms are dying. They try to flee the frigid air, to burrow deeper in, into the warmth and the wetness and the soft safety of the flesh, but the cold catches them, freezes them dry and bone-brittle and dead. And they _ scream _ as they die, their high, sweet song sheared from them by the primal, overpowering shriek of their pain and anger.

Their host screams, too, and sobs, choking out keening wails through the worm corpses congealing in what could be called their throat. They cry for their children, begging them, _ come back, come here, come home,_ but to no avail.

Soon, too soon, the worms are silent, and the silence is louder than their song ever was. 

And the Hive, neither home nor human now, but a hollow husk, sinks into that silence.

When she claws her way back to consciousness — or what she believes to be consciousness — she is cold. Not from any killing chill like before, but from cool, hissing air creeping over her pitted flesh, penetrating what pores she has left that aren’t simply doors for —

She remembers her worms then, how they suffered and screamed for her sake, and knows, the knowledge heavy in what is left of her stomach, that they are dead. They are dead and gone, gone from her, and she is alive — if this could be called _ life,_ without them — and _ alone. _

It is too quiet here, and that is what convinces her that it is true. If even _ one _of her worms were alive, she is certain she would hear them, sing their song back to them until they crawled inside her again, until their song was sung in the one voice of many mouthless things in harmony. But the silence is too heavy for her to hear.

She whimpers, then louder as the air pushes into the gap that serves as her mouth and rushes into what passes for her lungs. It _ burns _ now, filling her up with freezing fire, scraping and scratching at the tatters of what once was skin, stitching her cells back together — 

She screams then, fully shattering the silence. Though it hurt to scream, to let more and more air circulate in the empty crevices and sharp corners of her body, nothing, not even her grief and pain, could hurt worse than this… _ regeneration,_ this rebirth into a wholeness and cleanness she’d shunned long ago. So she keeps screaming, and hopes without much hope that _ something _ will hear her, and know that what is being done to her is not what she wants.

“Will you_ stop _ that?”

His voice slides over her like a hand trailing up her caved-in chest, like fingers tightening around her exposed neck. Her scream dies in her throat — _ I have a throat? — _ and she lies there, utterly limp. She cannot see who is speaking, but she has a strange, strong sensation that she is being _ examined:_ like she has been pressed between glass plates and pinned to the blindingly bright diaphragm of a microscope.

And she knows then, with deepening dread, what has a hold on her.

“That’s better.” His voice is crisp and even, free of its previous irritation. “It hurts, I know, but you _ will _ hurt in far worse ways if you do not listen.”

He hardly needs to compel her to believe him. She knows what he’s saying is true.

Measured footsteps pace ever-closer to her. “Starting a ritual in the very heart of another power’s domain... I must admit, I didn’t think the Corruption had the nerve, but you certainly proved me wrong.” He _ tsk_s, and she can practically hear him shaking his head and smiling faintly, condescendingly. “Unfortunately, you didn’t quite have the numbers to pull it off, even with all your... _ worms_.”

A sob rises in her throat — _ a throat, _ I _ have a throat — _but she swallows it down. She knows better now. She will not give the Eye the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

“And now, here you are. Alone. Abandoned.” His voice is much closer now, much lower, almost intimate. “The Corruption may have cast you aside to die for your failure, but I am _ very _interested in keeping you alive, Miss Prentiss.”

_ Miss. Prentiss. _ His words hiss through her skull. _ That was — is that — _

“Me?” The whispered question croaks out before she can stop it. Her vocal cords are still thin and fraying, and they throb painfully in her new throat with the effort.

“Yes, you.” He sounds amused. “Who else but you?”

He doesn’t understand what she’s asking. No, he does; how could he not? He’s just being obtuse. Obscure. But in a way, it does answer her question.

And though it hurts to speak, she has to know: “_Why?”_

“Well,” he says, mock-thoughtfully, “what a good question.” He pauses, as if actually considering it. “Let’s just say that… I’m _ curious _ to see what you’ll do.” 

Then he laughs, and the sound makes her torn muscles tense and clench with an overpowering urge to flee. “But, if we’re to be honest with each other, I’m _ much _ more curious about what the others will do when they find out you’re not dead.”

Sasha has no idea what’s going on. 

All she knows is that when she walked back into work on Monday morning after the mandatory two-week leave Elias had given her and her coworkers after the attack on the Institute, Elias had met her at the door to the Archives and asked her to take a walk with him. Since Jon was already standing at his side, and since Tim and Martin, both hastily dropping their things off at their desks before hurrying back out the door, had presumably been told the same thing, she’d thought nothing of doing the same — even if it meant following them into a wing of the Institute that she had never seen before and wasn’t entirely sure how they’d gotten to.

Now, even though it was probably too late for such things, she’s having second thoughts.

Martin seems to be going through a similar thought process. “Did Elias say anything more about where we’re going or what we’re doing, and I just missed it?” he asks, his voice low and anxious.

“Nope,” Tim replies. “Hasn’t said anything else.”

“Oh. Good.” Then Martin frowns. “Actually… would it make sense if I said that _ doesn’t _make me feel better? That this doesn’t feel good at all?”

“Perfect sense,” Tim says grimly. “I’m not liking this either.”

Sasha is about to nod in agreement, but her motion is interrupted by a yawn. She stifles it, and then nods as planned, but her head feels heavier, more sluggish.

Tim glances over, concerned. “Rough night?”

“Rough couple of nights,” Sasha says. “I’ve been having trouble sleeping since…” Her voice trails off, and she shrugs. “Well… you know.”

Tim snorts. “All too well.”

“Same,” Martin chimes in gloomily. 

Sasha can only imagine what their nightmares are full of: tunnels and corpses and _ worms,_ thousands upon thousands of silvery, singing, screaming worms. She almost envies the simplicity of their fears, their past tangibility and terror made bearable and safe through sleep.

Behind closed eyes, she sees nothing but the skeletons of the groaning, towering shelves in Artifact Storage, shrouded in darkness — and a tall, thin, flickering figure lurking at the edges of her vision.

There is a _ click _ of a lock, and Sasha realizes then that their little party has stopped at a door, which Elias has just unlocked. As he opens the door, she can just make out the door’s one distinguishing feature: the word _ OBSERVATION,_ stenciled on the wood with peeling red paint.

Jon regards the doorway with suspicion. “What is this place?”

“I believe these laboratories were once used for extrasensory perception experiments back in the ‘50s, back when the Institute still had the budget and brainpower for that sort of thing,” Elias says. “Nowadays, of course, we’re a bit understaffed when it comes to scientists, but the facilities still come in handy from time to time.” He steps over the threshold and holds the door open from the inside. “Do come in.”

After a beat, Jon follows reluctantly, with Martin and Tim trailing behind. Sasha is the last one inside, and Elias closes and locks the door behind her. With the light from the hallway gone, there’s a brief moment of darkness before the _ thwick _of a flipped light switch heralds the ceiling lamp turning on, bathing the interior in a musty glow. 

Blinking at the sudden light, Sasha looks around and sees that the five of them are standing in a cramped observation room, with a pane of glass that is more wall than window separating it from an adjoining room that is still dark. The observation room is stark and utilitarian, with a single table and chair in the back corner and a panel of light switches by the door.

Elias flips another of the switches, and the adjoining room is lit up with a harsher fluorescent light. This room is a bit larger than the room that they are currently standing in, with wooden flooring and paneled walls studded with geometrically-cut foam. Despite the soundproofing, Sasha can still hear the droning thrum of the medical apparatus within: a hyperbaric chamber, its cylindrical glass body dominating the space.

Jon frowns. “Is there — someone _ in _ there?”

Sasha leans closer to the glass, trying to get a better look. There _ is _ someone lying in the chamber: a pale, emaciated figure in a cotton hospital gown, unmoving save for the slight rise and fall of their chest. Their dark hair is long, lank, and tangled, shrouding their face from view, but in the weird cast of the light, Sasha can see hundreds — no, _ thousands _— of shimmering silver scars pitting the sallow skin stretched over their bare limbs.

Scars just like Jon’s and Tim’s.

Sasha claps a hand over her mouth, but her gasp still slips out.

“Ohmygod.” Martin sounds like he’s going to vomit. 

Tim stares, his expression hovering somewhere between shock and disgust. “Is that —?”

“The entity formerly known as the Hive, once again known as Jane Prentiss, yes,” Elias says. His matter-of-fact, even tone is distinctly at odds with the distressing news he is delivering.

“How is she still alive?” Jon demands, rounding on Elias. “I thought the carbon dioxide —”

“It did serious damage,” Elias says, still maddeningly calm. “The new fire suppression system exterminated the worms quickly enough, and since I was under the impression that Prentiss was more worm than woman at this point, I assumed she wouldn’t be long for the world. Imagine my surprise when the ECDC came to remove her body and she started_ twitching_.”

Jon glances back at the still-prone Prentiss, the glare on his face briefly giving way to a glimmer of fear.

“Don’t fret, Jon. She’s in a severely weakened state, and without the worms, she’s quite harmless,” Elias assures him. “The Institute’s medical professionals tell me the hyperbaric oxygen therapy is working wonders on her various skin and tissue infections; more likely than not, she’ll make a full physical recovery.”

“Is that supposed to be _ good _news?” Martin asks incredulously. 

Elias sighs. “I understand you might be upset by this, _ but _ —”

“‘Might be upset’? ‘_Might be upset’?!”_ Tim interrupts, his voice rising. “Prentiss laid siege to the Institute and tried to kill all of us; I’m more than a _ little upset!” _ He jabs an accusatory finger at the glass. “Why is she alive and still here, and not dead or — or in worm jail, or — literally _ anywhere _other than here?”

“First of all, there is no prison I know of who would willingly hold a felon they knew to be involved in a Section 31 case — _ particularly _ a case associated with the Institute — even without the worms to consider,” Elias says, maintaining his calm tone despite the tightness in his jaw. “And second of all, Prentiss is of far greater use to the Institute as an asset.” He looks pointedly at Jon.

_ An asset? _ Sasha is confused only for a moment before the awful realization dawns. _ Elias can’t mean — _

“Absolutely not,” Jon snaps. “The only way Jane Prentiss is setting foot in the Archives again is over my dead body, and you _ know _I mean it, Elias.” 

“I know you do, and I respect that, Jon,” Elias says testily. “But you’re the one that’s spent months — _ months — _ reading the statements that Gertrude left behind. I should think you were at least beginning to _ suspect _ that there were ‘more things in heaven and Earth,’ so to speak… and now, you _ all _ know that to be terribly true.” He exhales, looking remarkably weary for a moment, and then he is composed once again. “As for myself, I believe that Jane Prentiss is just the start. If you can get any information from her, anything at all that might help when you and your team are investigating those statements… I think that’s worth _ something,_ don’t you?”

“Is it worth our lives?” Jon asks darkly.

“Will it be worth it when another monster comes calling and you have the knowledge to stop it?” Elias counters. “_Yes. _And I should think that if you refuse that knowledge, you’re certainly not assigning any sort of value to your life or to the lives of your staff.”

“I —” Jon starts angrily, but whatever retort he is about to make is cut off by a muffled _ thump _ from the other room.

Five heads slowly turn to see the source of the noise.

Jane Prentiss’ hand is pressed against the glass of the hyperbaric chamber, bony fingers splayed and twitching. Slowly, she lifts her other hand, pushing it out to the side. Her palm meets glass there, too. Her chest rises and falls rapidly as she gropes and flails, her motions becoming wilder and more desperate. 

Then she starts screaming, and no soundproofing can mask the panic and pain in her ragged, hoarse cries. Jane Prentiss keeps screaming and sobbing and thrashing, hitting the glass in a frenzy of limbs and crying harder and harder with every failed strike.

Jon stares, and Sasha thinks he looks almost as horrified as she unexpectedly feels. “Good _Lord —”_

“While the hyperbaric oxygen therapy has been effective, it has been far from painless for her.” In stark contrast, Elias looks a bit irritated. “I thought she’d gotten accustomed to the therapy, but I suppose the staff need to resume sedating her to get her through a session _ quietly._”

As if on cue, Jane Prentiss suddenly stills, falling silent and limp as she curls, shaking and cowering, into an almost-fetal position on her side. She rakes her trembling hands through her hair, pulling it like a curtain over her face, but not before Sasha glimpses the wet gleam of tears on her cheeks.

Elias sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Let’s continue this conversation in my office, Jon.” He casts a withering glance at the glass. “That way, we won’t be disturbed again.”

“Reckon it’s too late to hand in two weeks’ notice?” Tim asks dryly.

“You should have done it two weeks ago.” Martin is slumped over his desk, his head in his hands, and his voice, though slightly muffled, is distinctly defeated. “If any of us had any sense, we _ all _should have.”

After Elias and Jon’s abrupt departure to continue their argument upstairs in Elias’ office, the three of them had beat as hasty of a retreat as they could back to the Archives. That had been — Sasha checks her watch — about an hour ago, and there was _ still _no sign of Jon. And without Jon to dole out research assignments, there wasn’t anything meaningful for them to do except sit at their desks and wait.

_ Not that we’d feel like doing work if we had any,_ she thinks. If their conversation was anything to go by, Tim and Martin were about as on-edge as she was.

Tim glances over at Martin. “No offense, Martin, but I’m surprised that you of all people are still here,” he says. “I mean, this is the _ second _worm siege you’ve lived through in a matter of months; if anyone has good reason to quit, it’s you.”

“None taken.” Martin raises his head, propping up his chin with his hands. “Honestly? I probably should have. Still should. I just…” He sighs. “I don’t know. I really can’t put a name to it.”

For what feels like the first time that day, Sasha smiles. “I might,” she says teasingly. “First name Jonathan, last name Sims?”

Martin flushes. “Maybe,” he mumbles. “Might as well be, since I don’t know what else it _ could _be.” 

“Could be me,” Tim suggests, wiggling his eyebrows.

“No, it’s not you,” Martin says immediately, then looks utterly horrified. “I — I mean,” he stammers as Sasha starts giggling, “not — not that you’re not nice or anything, Tim —”

“Of course I’m nice!” Tim says indignantly. “It’s Sasha you have to watch out for!”

“How _ dare _you!” Sasha swats Tim’s shoulder. “Clearly Martin’s the meanest of us all.”

Martin snorts. “Okay, _ that _ distinction _ definitely _goes to Jon.”

All three of them laugh at that, and the tension lifts, if only for a moment.

“All joking aside,” Tim says, sober once again, “Jon sure has been up in Elias’ office for a while. Are we thinking that’s a good sign or a bad one?”

“With our luck?” Martin says. “Bad.”

“I mean, you’re probably right,” Tim admits, shrugging. “Still, if things had gone sour, I would think that he’d be back sooner.”

“Maybe? Nothing makes sense any more.” Martin folds his arms back onto his desk and slumps down once again.

Sasha takes a deep breath, one that seems too loud in the sudden still. “What do you guys think?” she asks quietly, finally giving voice to what’s been eating at her since they left the observation room. “Do you think — do you think that Elias is _ right?”_

Tim frowns. “About what?”

“About any of it,” Sasha says. “About Prentiss not being a danger anymore, about her being useful to the Archives… any of it.”

“You think Elias is… _ lying?”_ Martin asks, disbelieving.

“No! God, no, that’s not what I’m saying. I — I don’t know what it is, but something isn’t adding up.” Sasha struggles to find her next words, but what had felt so straightforward in her mind felt so _ strange _ to say. “Two weeks ago, Elias tells me — _ during _ the worm invasion, mind you — that he thought that Jon was somehow _ overreacting _about the worms. And now, he’s saying that Prentiss is part of some larger threat that we need to prepare for? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Two weeks can do a hell of a lot to shift your perception,” Tim says wryly. “But you do have a point; maybe he _ does _ know something we don’t. Maybe he talked to Prentiss and she told him something that changed his mind.”

“_Can _ she even talk?” Martin asks suddenly.

Tim shudders. “She certainly could when she was all wormy,” he says. “And, well… we know she still has vocal cords, at the very least.”

Sasha swallows, the memory of the horrible sounds coming from within the hyperbaric chamber echoing in her ears. _But compared to what I heard when the fire suppression system_ _was deployed… those sounds were _definitely_ human._

She isn’t sure if that makes her feel better or worse about Jane Prentiss still being alive and under the same roof as them.

Her thoughts are rudely interrupted by the sound of the Archives door slamming open. Jon, his face set in a murderous glare, kicks the door shut and stalks past their desks to his office without a word to any of them. Wrenching open the office door with a piercing squeal of hinges, he stomps inside, yanking the door closed with a _ bang. _

“Well,” Tim says sarcastically, “that’s a _ great _sign.”

No sooner are the words out of his mouth than they hear a dull _ crack _ from inside, punctuated with a muffled yell, and then some quiet, disgruntled cursing.

Martin sighs and heaves himself to his feet. “I’ll get the first aid kit.”

“We have a first aid kit?” Sasha asks, surprised.

“Well, we do now.” Martin leans down to open his backpack, pulling out a plastic-sided first aid kit with the price sticker still attached. “This would have been really helpful two weeks ago, but I figured better late than never.”

The door to the Head Archivist’s office opens again. Jon stands in the doorway, one hand on the doorknob and the other hand limp at his side, the knuckles bleeding.

Martin wordlessly holds up the first aid kit.

Jon sighs heavily, then walks over to the ring of desks. “I... didn’t expect that the wall would be repaired with anything stronger than drywall and plaster,” he mutters, sitting in Martin’s vacated seat and resting his injured hand on the desk.

“Well, if there’s anything else down in the tunnels, at least they won’t break through _ that _wall again,” Martin says, opening up the first aid kit and yanking Jon’s hand closer for a better look.

“Actually, it was_ Jon _ who broke the wall,” Sasha says. “Did Maintenance put up a new shelf when they repaired the wall, by the way?”

“No, they didn’t,” Jon says tightly. “I suppose I’ll have to put in a work order for that eventually, but I have other things to worry about right — _ ouch!”_

“Hold that there.” Martin presses a gauze pad to Jon’s knuckles, then rummages in the first aid kit. He sighs and looks up. “Tim, I’m really sorry about this, but do you have anything in your nip drawer I can use?” 

“‘_Nip drawer’?”_ Jon echoes incredulously.

“What the hell is a ‘nip drawer,’ and why would you assume I have one?” Tim protests, his eyes darting guiltily to Jon.

“I don’t know,” Sasha says brightly. “There must be some_ spark _ about you that makes people go, ‘Why, I declare! I do believe that handsome man has a nip drawer.’”

“Could you all _ please _stop saying ‘nip drawer’?” Jon says, with a note in his voice that almost sounds like despair.

“Come _ on,_ Tim,” Martin pleads. “The antiseptic wipes in here are _ tiny, _and I’m going to need a bit more disinfectant than they can provide.”

Tim groans. “_Fine_. But nobody better tell HR about this.” He pulls open the bottom drawer of his desk, pushes aside the file folders, and retrieves a basket full of miniature alcohol bottles from the very back. “I think there’s some unflavored vodka in there, but I bet the whiskey would work, too.”

“Thanks.” Martin grabs one of them, unscrews the cap, peels off the gauze pad, pours the bottle’s contents onto the pad, and then starts dabbing at Jon’s bloody knuckles. “Jesus, Jon, hold _ still,”_ he grumbles, pinning Jon’s squirming hand to the table. “You’re getting blood all over my desk.”

“I don’t think you used the unflavored vodka,” Jon retorts through gritted teeth. “It _ stings._”

Sasha picks up the discarded plastic bottle and peers at the label. “Smirnoff Green Apple,” she confirms. “Well, it could be worse.”

“It’s already worse,” Jon says grimly. “Elias isn’t budging on Prentiss.”

“We figured as much.” Tim slides another vodka nip over to Martin, then picks out a whiskey nip and stashes the basket back in his desk drawer. “So, what’s the deal?” he asks, opening the bottle and taking a swig. 

Jon scowls. “Less of a deal, more of an order,” he manages, tightening his jaw as Martin pours the second nip directly on his knuckles. “The good news is that Elias doesn’t think Prentiss is quite back to full health yet, so she won’t start working here until next Monday.”

“_Working?”_ Tim repeats. “So she has an honest-to-God _ job _here now?”

“Elias conceives of her position as more of a… freelance consulting role,” Jon says. “Basically a glorified intern, who also happens to be, for all intents and purposes, under house arrest.” He snorts. “Just as well she’s not officially on the payroll, I suppose; the Institute is already funding her treatment.”

“So Elias _ doesn’t _ plan on setting her loose on an unsuspecting public?” Martin asks, cleaning away the rest of the blood and reaching for the antibiotic ointment. 

“He has _ that _much sense, at least,” Jon remarks. “As far as I understand it, if Prentiss isn’t with us in the Archives, she’ll be kept in her cell in the laboratory wing. Either way, she’ll have someone watching her at all times for —”

“— worms?” Martin finishes. He smears the ointment over Jon’s knuckles, then starts winding a bandage around Jon’s hand. 

“Yes, worms,” Jon says testily. “While Elias is confident that Prentiss is… _ dewormed__,_ he was insistent that if we saw any worms or any signs of worms — in her, in the building, _ anywhere — _that we report it to him immediately.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice.” Tim finishes off his nip.

“So... what’ll Prentiss actually be _ doing _down here?” Sasha asks. “Did Elias elaborate on that at all?”

“He did not — _ oh.”_ Jon looks down at the bandage on his knuckles as if he is surprised to see it there. “Thank you, Martin,” he says absently before continuing. “To be honest, I’m not quite sure _ what _ Elias thinks she’ll be doing when she’s not helping out with investigations, if she even does _ that_.” He exhales heavily. “I — I suppose I’ll figure out what she _ can _do once I check the state of the Archives this afternoon and see what needs to be done around the place.”

“Anything we can help with?” Martin, his cheeks a little pink, hastily stows away the first aid kit in his own desk drawer.

“No, you all are going home. I don’t care that Elias only allowed for two weeks of leave; I’m giving you the rest of the day off to process, and he’s just going to have to deal with it.” Jon stands up, the legs of the chair scraping against the tile floor, and heads back to his office. “I’ll see you three tomorrow morning.”

Martin, Sasha, and Tim look at each other in momentary confusion and concern. Then Tim shrugs and starts gathering his things, and Martin follows suit, albeit a bit more reluctantly.

“Oh, Sasha, before you go —” Jon opens the door to his office, wincing slightly as he curls his injured hand around the doorknob. “Do you have a moment to talk?”

Sasha blinks, surprised. “Um, yeah. Sure.” She glances back at Tim and Martin. “What are you thinking; are you guys getting an early lunch?”

“Might as well,” Tim says, slinging his bag over one shoulder. “If anywhere nearby is serving brunch, all the better.”

“We’ll wait for you in the lobby, okay?” Martin says, zipping up his backpack. “We’ll figure out where to go in the meantime.”

“Sounds good.” Sasha stands and follows Jon into his office, pausing at the door. “Should I close this?” she asks tentatively.

“Please.” Jon drops into his desk chair, rubbing his temples.

Sasha closes the door, then takes a seat in the chair on the other side of the desk and waits, not entirely sure what Jon wants from her.

After a moment of silence, Jon sighs, then lets his hands fall to the desk and focuses on her. “I — I realize this is an inane question, given the circumstances, but… how — how are you holding up?”

Sasha chews on her lip as she thinks. “_Okay,_ I guess?” she says, uncertain. “I mean… I wasn’t injured or anything, so… I guess that means I’m fine?”

Jon looks skeptical.

Sasha sighs. “Okay, this is going to sound really stupid,” she confesses, “but, like… the whole two weeks I was out, all I could think was: _ I don’t need this; I should be back at work. _ And I know that’s not true,” she adds quickly, “and that it’s not healthy to think of this whole ordeal in terms of — of some kind of Olympics of suffering or something like that, but… compared to you and Tim and Martin, I _ know _ I got off pretty easy. I mean, Prentiss personally tried to kill each of you; I just got one secondhand worm, and that wasn’t even in the attack on the Institute!” 

She stops, suddenly aware that she is beginning to hyperventilate, and tries to slow down her breathing. Jon averts his gaze and waits.

“Sorry,” Sasha finally says. “I — I guess I’m not as okay as I thought.”

“None of us are,” Jon says bleakly. “And… regardless of what our individual experiences with Jane Prentiss might have been, I think it was a shock to all of us to see her alive again.”

“Mmh.” Once again, the screaming echoes in Sasha’s mind, and she desperately tries not to think about it.

Jon exhales heavily, then reaches across his desk for the battered tape recorder in the corner. “In any case,” he says, his usual brusque manner returning, “I — I realized this past week when putting together the incident report for the attack that I didn’t get your statement about it. I’m reluctant to trouble you for it now, given the events of this morning, but —”

“Oh! Oh, no, that’s — that’s not an issue,” Sasha stammers. “I’m sorry about that, by the way; I would have stuck around afterwards if I’d known, but the paramedics said I was fine, and you all seemed _ physically _fine at least, so I… took off.”

Jon waves it away. “Do you still have the tape recorder, the one you took with you when you went to get help?” he asks. “Elias mentioned it in his statement, but —” He sighs irritably. “Well, Elias’ statement is currently suspect, for obvious reasons.”

“Ah… no,” Sasha says awkwardly. “I mean, I have the recorder, but not the tape itself. I think I must have accidentally hit the eject button when Elias and I were trying to get to the manual release for the fire suppression system; we were running from a _ lot _of worms, and I… wasn’t paying attention.” She picks nervously at her nails. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Jon says tiredly. “What matters is you’re here now, and I can take your statement.” He clears his throat and then turns on the tape recorder. “Statement of Sasha James, archival assistant at the Magnus Institute, regarding the invasion by the entity —” he grimaces “— once again known as Jane Prentiss. Statement recorded direct from subject. Incident occurred twenty-ninth July, 2016.” He glances at her. “Start from after you got out of the Archives, please. Take your time.”

“Well,” Sasha begins slowly, “I don’t know whether or not you and Martin heard the fire alarm from the old file storage room, but that was me. I pulled the fire alarm to try and get everyone else out of the building, and then I ran like hell upstairs. I found Elias and I told him what was going on, and — well, once he was convinced that there were killer worms overtaking the Archives, he told me that he’d changed the fire suppression system down there to use carbon dioxide, and that there was a manual release we could pull to activate it, since there wasn’t an actual fire to set it off.

“So, we hurried back downstairs, but… well, the worms were there. They rushed at us, and I got separated from Elias. I didn’t know where the manual release was, so I — I just ran. Into Artifact Storage, of all places. _ That _ should tell you something about how bad everything had gotten.” Sasha almost laughs, but it sticks in her throat.

Jon frowns. “You used to work there, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. I stuck it out for three months as a practical researcher before I transferred. I — I try not to think about that time.” She swallows. “Anyway. Still as creepy as ever in there, but at least there were no worms.”

_ There was… something else, though. Something — _ A tall, thin, flickering figure flashes through her mind, reaching out of the dark with its too-long hands. _ Something _wrong.

“Sasha?” Jon prompts. “Everything okay?”

“Uh, yeah. Just — just give me a moment.” Sasha takes as deep a breath as she can muster and soldiers on. What she _ thinks _ she saw in Artifact Storage isn’t important right now. “I stayed there until — until the fire suppression system deployed. I heard that — that awful _ scream _ of the worms, and once it stopped, I ran back down to the Archives to see if anyone was still down there. You and Tim were lying by the open trapdoor, but you weren’t moving — you were just _ lying _there, the dead worms still half-inside you. But I checked, and you were both alive, so I pulled you two back to where there was more air, and then I — grabbed some tissues and started removing the worms.” She stops; Jon is beginning to look a little sick. “Are you all right?”

“Sorry,” Jon says. “Just… difficult to hear, you know.” He waves at her with his injured hand. “I’ll be fine; you can keep going.”

Sasha nods. “Anyway, Elias arrived shortly after that and brought the whole cavalry along with him: the fire brigade, the paramedics, the ECDC, _ everyone._ I did my best to explain what had happened, and they took you and Tim away for treatment and started checking me and Elias for worms.” She frowns, remembering a new detail. “I guess that must have been when the hazmat people found that Prentiss was still alive; I remember one of them pulling Elias aside, so I was left alone with the paramedics for a bit until he came back.”

Jon scowls. “Probably.”

“Well,” Sasha continues, “the paramedics gave me a clean bill of health, and Elias had already told me he was planning on giving us two weeks leave, so I was about to get my things and go when we heard cries from the trapdoor. It was Martin, and he was shouting — something about a _ body. _Elias and I got him to come up, and we tried to calm him down, but Martin was in pretty bad shape. All we were able to make out was that he’d found the body of the previous Head Archivist, Gertrude Robinson, down in the tunnels. 

“Elias… well, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look that stunned. He told us to stay put, and then he called the police. I stayed with Martin until the officers arrived, and then we told them everything that had happened. After that, it was Martin’s turn to get examined by the paramedics. I think you were just getting out of quarantine then — Tim was still in there, but I asked one of the paramedics, and she said he was probably fine — so I figured if everyone was okay...” She shrugs. “Well, I went home, took a hot bath with a bottle of wine, and then slept for twelve hours. And... that’s about it, really.”

Jon nods. “Right. Statement ends.” He turns the tape recorder off with a _ click._ “Thank you for that. I’m sorry to dredge all that up again, but —”

“Well, apparently Prentiss is doing a pretty good job of dredging herself up, so…” Sasha sighs. “Anyway, it’s not your fault. And it’s not like I was going to forget about it anytime soon.”

“I don’t think any of us will.” Jon pulls out a file folder stuffed with papers and a pen from his desk drawer, then repositions the tape recorder a little closer to him. “That’s all I needed, Sasha. You can go now.” He tries to smile, but the expression is strained. “You three have a nice brunch.”

“Yeah.” Sasha stands and quickly walks to the door, opening it back up.

“Oh, and Sasha?”

Sasha turns around, already halfway out the door and ready to close it again.

“Chances are, it probably got… eaten by worms or something, but… if you happen to find that missing tape, could you give it to me?” Jon opens up the file folder, revealing a stack of forms inside, and clicks open the pen. “It’ll probably be redundant as far as the incident report is concerned, but the more corroborating information, the better.”

Sasha nods. “Yeah. I’ll keep an eye out.” Before Jon can say anything more, she slips out the door and quickly closes it behind her.

Heart pounding, Sasha walks back to her desk, grabs her tote bag, and heads for the main entrance to the Archives. As she makes her exit, she reaches inside and feels around to check that everything’s still there. Phone. Wallet. Keys. Water bottle. 

Tape recorder. 

She waits until the door to the Archives swings shut behind her, and then hits the eject button as she starts ascending the basement stairs. Her fingers brush around the edges of the plastic lid, then against the cool surface of the tape.

Letting out a sigh of relief — or something close to relief — Sasha quickly closes the recorder lid. Slinging her tote bag over her shoulder and anchoring it at her side with her arm, she starts to run up towards the light at the top of the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**CW:** Mild body horror, intentional and malicious mind control, involuntary medical treatment._
> 
> I know what hyperbaric oxygen therapy is because of [_Hannibal!_](https://www.popoptiq.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/06/Hannibal.jpg?ezimgfmt=rs:627x352/rscb1/ng:webp/ngcb1)
> 
> [Wikipedia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Miniature_\(alcohol\)) tells me that the use of the word "nip" to refer to miniature bottles of alcohol is generally localized to the northeastern United States and Scotland (which explains why I use it). I was too lazy to fact-check that and, besides, I decided to use the word anyway for comedic effect.
> 
> Also, there's one very overt _Hamlet_ reference in this chapter, [courtesy of Elias](http://www.opensourceshakespeare.org/views/plays/play_view.php?WorkID=hamlet&Act=1&Scene=5&Scope=scene&LineHighlight=918#918), but there's another, much more vague reference that I unconsciously threw in there without realizing it was from _Hamlet_. If you can find it, I salute you, because I sure as hell couldn't pick it out until I was giving this chapter a final once-over.


	2. Unwelcome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regarding the preparation for Jane Prentiss’ first day as an employee, of sorts, of the Magnus Institute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to get sappy for a moment, but I really want to get this out there: I always find it really intimidating to write something for a fandom I'm relatively new to, but as I've recently discovered, _TMA_ fans sure know how to make a new fic writer feel welcome. Many thanks to everyone who's commented, bookmarked, and left kudos thus far, and I hope you all continue to enjoy the fic!

It is unnatural to be alone in her body.

She has been alone for much of her imprisonment in the Institute. The avatar who keeps her here has, for the most part, kept himself hidden, but he makes his will manifest through the blank-faced nurses in yellow plastic suits who bring her meals to her cell and escort her to and from what they call _ treatment. _ Considering that they are her only company, it is infinitely better to be alone. She tells herself constantly that she has already been alone for many, many years, and that human companionship no longer means anything to her, if it ever did.

But the company that she wants so dearly is dead, and she never forgets it. She is always aware that she is alone in her body, with only the silvery scars on her new, shiny skin to remind her of what she was, what she had — and she knows, the awful knowledge cutting sharp as a knife, that she is so very _ lonely. _

During the first few nights — or what she thinks of as night; with no windows and no clock, there is no way to tell one day from another beyond whether the lights in her cell are turned on or off — she used to lie awake, eyes closed, and concentrate on what could be under her skin. She catalogued every pulsing rush of blood, every twitching muscle, every churn and twist of her stomach, and yet, she could not feel what she was looking for: that old itch, squirming and burrowing deep below her skin, into the very marrow of her bones.

She had stopped looking, eventually. She still hates herself for giving up on them so easily, but she has something new to fear. 

“You’ll be staying with us a little longer, Miss Prentiss,” he’d told her, sounding distinctly satisfied. “The Archivist has agreed to accept your help in the Archives.”

The Archives. She’d been there before, in another life. The Hive had hated it, and she’d thought that meant that it could help, if she even _ wanted _ to be helped. But once she had seen the Archives for what it was — the catalogue of all fears, reducing horrors to reports and recordings, robbing the Powers of their rightful power and taking all that stolen terror in the statements to consume for itself — she had begun to hate it, too. 

She couldn’t care less about its Archivists: the old woman who couldn’t help her, the old-looking man who was too afraid of her to offer help. Obstacles, _ that _ was all they were — what else could they do against her except _ watch _as she spit in their Eye? 

But _ he _ wasn’t like the Archivists. He served the same master as they, yes, but that was where the similarities ended. And _ he — _ he could do far worse than just watching; she had felt it before, and she still feels it every time she hears his voice, with its creeping undercurrent of compulsion.

Best to make him think she is compliant. Anything to avoid outright coercion.

So she nods like she agrees with whatever his plan for her is. So she grits her teeth in the glass coffin and saves what tears she has left for the silence of her cell. So she waits, always aware of his watching her, for what is coming next.

Her waiting ends when a stranger enters her cell. She is expecting one of the yellow-suited nurses, here to whisk away her half-eaten tray of food, but she is surprised and suspicious to see, entering after the nurse, a woman unshielded by a yellow suit. 

She studies the woman as the nurse wordlessly takes the tray from her bedside table and leaves. The woman is smartly dressed, and she carries several shopping bags in her hands. Unlike the nurses, who are always on edge around her, the woman doesn’t seem all that perturbed about where she is, or who she is currently alone in a room with.

The door closes and locks again behind the nurse, and the woman approaches her bed then. “You must be Jane Prentiss,” she says brightly. “I’m Rosie, the Institute’s receptionist. Or administrative assistant, to some,” she adds with a little laugh, “although I always tell Elias that the title makes the job sound much more stuffy than it really is.”

_ Jane. Prentiss. _ She turns over the name in her mind, feeling out the unfamiliar shape and meaning of its sound. _ Miss Prentiss. Jane Prentiss. Me? _

But there is another name she has more questions about.

“Elias?” Her throat — _ Jane Prentiss’ throat? — _no longer hurts when she speaks, but her voice is still hoarse from disuse.

Rosie cocks her head, as if she is confused. “You haven’t met him? Actually, I suppose that makes sense; he _ is _ a very busy man, being the head of the Institute and all.” She places most of the shopping bags down on the floor, keeping one in her hands. “In any case, you’ll meet him soon enough. He just sent me ahead to make sure you were ready for your first day.”

_ First day. _ Her stomach twists into a knot as she remembers what he — _ Elias? Was he him? — _ had told her. _ Today? So soon? _

“Don’t worry!” Rosie says, smiling in a way that is probably meant to be reassuring. “You’ll be just fine. Besides, I’ve got everything you’ll need to freshen up.” She checks the contents of the shopping bag she’s still holding, and then holds it out, still smiling.

Unsure of what else to do, she reaches out and takes the bag. The plastic is cold in her hand as her fingers curl around the handle.

“There you go,” Rosie says, seemingly satisfied. “Now, go and get cleaned up. I’ll be out here when you’re done.”

She nods stiffly, not knowing what to say. Pushing the sheets off her, she swings her legs over the side of the bed and slowly stands up. She’s more sure on her feet than she has been, but she still gives herself a moment to adjust before walking to the door in the opposite corner of her cell. She opens it, slips inside, and then closes it behind her; the lock was broken weeks ago, back when she was actively resisting _ treatment, _ but she still pushes the button in the center of the doorknob in, out of habit.

The bathroom is small and square, with just enough room for a sink with a mirrored cabinet above it, a toilet, and a shower with a single hook for a towel beside it. She eases herself down onto the flattened bath mat, crossing her legs, and empties the contents of the shopping bag onto the tile floor. 

Two bottles: one of shampoo, the other of conditioner. A bar of soap. A wooden-handled hairbrush. And a bath towel, far larger and cleaner than the one currently hanging on the wall hook.

A ripple of dismay and disgust shudders through her. She hasn’t washed herself in a long time — in the short time she’s been here, she’s gotten away with wetting a corner of a towel and wiping herself down in lieu of showering — but unfortunately, there seems to be no avoiding it now. 

And if this is what _ he _wants, well… what real choice does she have, anyway?

Swallowing the bile rising in her throat — _ Jane Prentiss’ throat. My throat? — _she reluctantly gathers up the items off the floor and stands, then puts them in what she imagines their places to be. The bottles and the soap, the shallow corner shelves of the shower. The hairbrush, the edge of the sink. The new towel, on the wall hook; the old towel, in a heap on the bath mat.

She reaches around the shower curtain and tentatively twists the knob on the wall. At first, the water hisses and spits violently out of the showerhead, but as she continues to turn the knob, the water settles into a steady, but slow stream. She lets go of the knob and passes her hand through the water. It’s freezing cold.

She lets the water run while she shrugs off the thin hospital gown that smells of dust and fever. She lets it fall to the floor, then steps out of the ring of fabric, past the shower curtain, and into the shower, pressing herself against the back where the water cannot touch her. 

She tests the water again. It’s on the colder side of lukewarm, and she decides that the temperature is about as tolerable as it will be for her. So she screws her eyes shut, presses one hand against the shower wall to steady herself, and steps under the stream of water. The feeling of being washed is fair from pleasant, but it could be worse.

As she stands under the water, eyes closed, muscles tensed, a memory comes to her in fragments. It is a memory of walking through a park at nighttime, a time when only she could walk freely without fear. But more than that, it is a memory of_ rain: _ of wet concrete paths carved with cracks where roots and weeds squirmed through, of patches of muddy dirt where earthworms burrowed in and out, of drops of water beading around and pooling in the holes in her skin.

Her worms had liked the rain. Rain was not quite as cleansing as people wanted to believe; it could nourish all sorts of noxious, crawling things, beetles and centipedes and worms among them, and the Hive most of all. So for the sake of her children, she had stood out in the rain at Alexandra Park, eyes closed, and felt them slide, slick and wet, out of and over her skin as they sang a song of blooming mold under the ghostly light of the cloud-shrouded moon.

Her eyes burn, and when she opens them, her tears are washed away by the water from the shower. She wipes at her eyes in sudden hurt and frustration, then grabs the shampoo, squirts some into her hand, and rubs the gel through her hair, viciously tearing her fingers through the knots and tangles.

_ Don’t think about the rain, _ she keeps telling herself as she rinses out the shampoo, as she works in the conditioner, as she scrapes soap over her sallow, scarred skin, as she stands with her eyes open under the water and lets it all wash away. _ Don’t think about it, _ Jane Prentiss… _ if that is who you are now. _

She doesn’t stop thinking about the rain until she wrenches the knob back the other way, and the water sputters and dies.

She grabs the towel with shaking hands and swaddles herself in it, drying off her miserably clean, shriveled skin before she loosens the towel and twists it around her hair, wilder than before despite just being washed. Out of spite, she drops the new towel on the floor alongside the old towel, and then pulls the discarded hospital gown, now slightly damp and even more crumpled, back up over her shivering body. 

When she exits the bathroom and emerges back into her cell, Rosie is at the dresser at the foot of the bed, briskly removing pieces of clothing from the shopping bags on the floor and transferring them to the open drawers. She watches wordlessly for a moment as Rosie finishes organizing shirts and starts on trousers, then closes the bathroom door fully to announce her presence.

Rosie almost jumps at the sound, but to her credit, she doesn’t show any signs of being startled when she looks up. “Good shower?” she asks, as chipper as ever.

Not wanting to nod, she settles for a shrug.

“Ah, well. If the bathroom sinks are anything to go by, I’m guessing the water pressure’s not ideal.” Rosie laughs, but it sounds a little bit more forced this time. She’s still holding some trousers; one manicured hand is absently rubbing at the fabric, worriedly working out the wrinkles.

She says nothing, but she feels her own hands unconsciously bunch in the folds of her hospital gown.

“I brought some clothes for you,” Rosie says, breaking the silence. She sets down the trousers in the drawer, but doesn’t close it. “I hope Elias did a good job of guessing your size, but if you find that something doesn’t fit, just leave the tags on and I can return it.”

She eyes the dresser with its still-open drawer. She knows, her skin prickling with the familiar sensation of being watched, that everything in those drawers would fit her.

Rosie leans in, that too-familiar smile playing on her face again. “Also — and don’t tell Elias this — but I raided the Institute’s Lost and Found,” she says, as if she’s disclosing some kind of secret. “You wouldn’t _ believe _the things people have left there! Perfectly nice things!”

She frowns. “Why?”

Rosie blinks, confused. “Why would people leave things there, or…?” she starts slowly, then realizes what the real question is. “Oh! Why not tell Elias, you mean?”

She nods. 

“Oh, well,” Rosie stammers, her words not coming to her quite as readily as they had before, “to be honest, I’m not entirely sure myself. See, Elias said that he didn’t want you in ‘cast-offs,’ and I can see his point, because, well, having nice clothes for work is important — well, it is for me, anyway — but _ I _couldn’t help but think, ‘well, what about a ratty old sweatshirt or something to wear off-hours; it does get terribly drafty in this building’ —” She stops, as if aware of her rambling. “In any case, I thought you’d be glad to be rid of that gown, at least,” she finishes, reddening.

She tilts her head, reconsidering her previous impression of Rosie. Though seemingly loyal to Elias, and to the Institute by extension, Rosie also seems to genuinely bear no ill will against her. It could very well be that Rosie is too senseless to recognize her as a threat, but for now, she will accept whatever kindness she is deemed fit to receive.

Slowly, she walks to Rosie’s side and looks down at the clothes in the dresser drawers. Even without the tags, it’s easy for her to tell what has been recently purchased and what has been scrounged up from the Lost and Found. Her sense of smell is not as sharply attuned to atrophy as it once had been, but the difference between the clean, chemical smell of the new clothes and the worn-out warmth of the older clothes is stark.

Her fingers brush over a turtleneck jumper that, even without its aroma, definitely looks like it has seen its fair share of wear and tear. It’s thickly knit and soft to the touch, and while it’s a bit too garishly striped for her tastes, the bright colors make the jumper immediately stand out against the pale button-down shirts on the other side of the drawer.

“That’s nice,” Rosie comments. “Not really something I’d wear, but it certainly looks cozy.” She checks her watch. “Well, you still have a good amount of time before Elias said he’d be down here, so I’ll head out. Give you some privacy to try things on.” She crouches down to gather up the now-empty shopping bags, then straightens up and smiles at her one more time. “Oh, and welcome to the Magnus Institute.”

She nods again, staying where she is as Rosie walks away and knocks on the cell door to let the nurse posted outside know that she is ready to be let out. Once the door closes and locks behind Rosie once again, she immediately takes the jumper out of the drawer and holds it up to her face. When she breathes in the festering scent of old detergent, the sickly sweet stench of some kind of herbal perfume, and the musk of forgotten, moldering clothes, she knows she’s made the right choice.

Draping the jumper over her arm, she rifles through the other drawers to see what else there is. After some deliberation, she pulls out a pair of straight-legged jeans, some crew socks, and a cotton bra and underwear; unlike the jumper, they are all brand-new. There’s a pair of ankle boots at the side of the dresser, but she leaves them for the moment, stuffing the socks into one of the boots before she heads back into the bathroom; she doesn’t feel comfortable changing out in the open.

Once she is inside and the door is closed, she strips off the hospital gown again and tosses it on top of the towels. Avoiding examination of her reborn body as much as she can, she hastily puts on the bra and underwear, then tugs up and buttons the jeans and yanks the jumper over her head, covering herself almost entirely. Picking up the hairbrush, she runs it through her hair as best she can; even after shampoo and conditioner, her hair is still distinctly unkempt, but she brushes it behind her shoulders and leaves it at that.

She slides the hairbrush back into place, and, for the first time since her imprisonment, she looks directly into the mirror. A stranger stares back at her with clear, keen eyes: a woman with clouds of damp, dark hair and unbroken skin glistening with silver scars.

She has never looked more alive and felt more dead.

Suddenly feeling sick, she turns abruptly away from the mirror. Yanking open the door, she leaves the bathroom as quickly as she entered it, but stops abruptly once she sees that she is not alone. 

There is a man standing before the door. She is sure she hasn’t heard the door unlock or open or close, but there he stands, just beyond the threshold. Like Rosie, he is sharply dressed; he wears a three-piece suit that is a little too tailored to have been bought off a rack like her new clothes in her dresser. But unlike Rosie, his smile, faint and narrow as it is, has an edge of icy amusement to it, and it does not extend to his piercing, depthless eyes.

He looks her up and down, and her skin immediately prickles under his penetrating glance. “Presentable,” he finally says, although there is a hint of displeasure in the word. “In retrospect, I suppose I should have stressed to Rosie your, ah, _ predilection _ for filth, but I didn’t want to scare her _ too _ much.”

Her eyes narrow slightly. Even if he hadn’t mentioned Rosie, even if Rosie hadn’t told her to expect him, she knows from his voice alone that he is the one who has imprisoned her and tormented her for so many torturous weeks. _So:_ this_ is Elias._

Elias’ smile gets a little wider, more indulgent. “Don’t worry. Rosie’s not going to be in any trouble over this; it’s hardly her fault I wasn’t specific enough,” he says lightly. “But, since I suppose you’re more worried about that ghastly jumper, I assure you, it will not be taken from you. We all need our small comforts, now and again.” He pauses, meeting her gaze directly. “And after all,_ I’m _not the monster here.”

She tries not to rise to the bait, but her fingers clench around the fraying sleeve cuffs and she_ knows _ that he notices. So instead, she crosses her arms and meets his gaze as steadily as she can.

Unfortunately, Elias is not daunted in the slightest. “Normally, this is the part of the onboarding process where I hand you the employment contract and you sign your life away,” he says. “But, since avatars of the Corruption, even former ones, tend to do rather inconvenient and costly things to infrastructure, I think we can both agree that it’s best if you’re not bound to the Institute permanently. That being said,” he continues, “should you prove troublesome, I can draw up the appropriate paperwork _ very _quickly.”

Her weeks of nightmares of eyes blinking open in every single scar on her body are suddenly no longer as worrying as before. Though it’s a small relief, it’s one she’ll gladly take, even though there is no returning to what she once was.

“So, in lieu of a formal contract, some guidelines to keep in mind.” Elias leaves his place at the door, pacing slowly towards her. “One: do try to be nice, and _don’t_ kill anyone. I know it might be terribly tempting to finish off Martin once and for all — third time’s the charm and all that — but if you do, you’ll have the rest of the Archives staff to contend with, and I doubt they will be as understanding as I.”

Martin, whoever he is, isn’t who she wants most to kill at the moment, and Elias is likely more than aware of that. Regardless, she shrugs in acquiescence all the same.

“And two,” Elias continues, coming to a stop in front of her, “make yourself useful. Not… _ helpful, _precisely, but useful, to a point. By all means, answer their questions, offer a hand with the investigations when asked — but don’t cheat and just give them all the answers freely.” The corners of his mouth curl, as if recalling some private joke. “It wouldn’t help the new Archivist any if he knew everything all at once, now, would it?”

She somehow doubts that; helping a servant of the Eye by starving them of insight hardly makes sense to her. However, now is neither the time nor place to question whatever move that Elias is making in this twisted game of his, so she shrugs again.

“You’re awfully agreeable today, Miss Prentiss. I’m glad of the change,” Elias observes. He hasn’t broken eye contact with her yet, and the prickling of her skin is getting stronger and more stinging with every passing second. “I do hope this continues. You see, once all is said and done, I’m _ considering _ letting you crawl back to your master — and maybe, just maybe, it’ll welcome you back.”

She can’t help the soft gasp that escapes her mouth. It is cruel, unbearably cruel, for him to dangle this possibility before her and know full well it may only be just that. But for the first time in weeks, she is powerfully aware of her heart thudding in her chest, and its song is one word: _ hope. _

_“But —” _ Elias raises a finger “— I will only continue to consider that course of action if _ you _ continue to comply with what I ask of you. _ Quid pro quo.” _That smile widens, but it still doesn’t reach his eyes. “I think that’s more than fair, don’t you?”

It isn’t fair at all; it is profoundly unfair that he has her at his mercy in such a cripplingly intimate way, and she would break her silence and spit his words back in his face if her throat — _ my throat, _ my _ throat — _wasn’t closing up. But she finally nods, ducking her head down to escape the eye contact between them.

“Good.” Elias’ fingers hook under her chin, tilting her head back up to meet his gaze, now colder than ever. “You’re much smarter than you let on, Miss Prentiss. But please: _ never _think you can outsmart me.”

Her battered composure close to breaking, she glares at him with all the strength she has left to muster. He gives as good as he gets.

An unexpected beeping breaks their focus. 

With a huff, Elias lifts his wrist and checks his watch. His glare, now redirected from her, only deepens. “We’re late,” he says curtly, turning off the watch alarm and stalking back towards the cell door. “Put on your shoes and come with me.”

Out of the storm of emotions raging within her comes a white-hot surge of something like triumph. In another life, she’d been called _ difficult, _ and that was the kindest way that her nature was explained to her. More often, it was _ toxic: _a damnation that had pierced her to the quick then. 

Now, she was beginning to think of the label as a badge of honor.

_ He thinks he can swallow me whole, that I won’t stick in his throat. _ She grabs the socks and boots and yanks both on, one after the other, her resolve slowly returning. _ But I might have poison lingering in me still. _

“Show of hands: who’s ready for _ Wormageddon 2: Electric Boogaloo?” _ Tim asks with a grin, raising his own hand almost immediately. “Coming soon, to an archive near you!”

Martin grimaces. “That’s not nearly as funny as you think it is.”

Tim sighs and drops his hand. “Look, Martin: using gallows humor as a coping mechanism has gotten me this far in life, and I have a feeling it’ll continue to see me through the foreseeable future.” He hoists himself up to sit on one side of Martin’s desk. “Besides, it _ rhymed! _ I thought you liked poetry!”

“Poetry as an art form, yes. _ That _poem, no.”

“Are you quite finished with the worm jokes, Tim?” Jon emerges from his office, looking wearier and grumpier than usual as he approaches the ring of desks. “Elias and Prentiss will be down here soon, and I doubt either of them will find your worm wordplay any funnier than we do.”

_“Wormplay, _if you will,” Sasha adds, on a whim.

Unexpectedly, Martin laughs. “See?” he says to Tim. “Now _ that _was sort of clever.”

“Not _ that _much more clever,” Tim retorts, but he’s struggling not to laugh as well.

Sasha smiles, but the anxiety that has been roiling in her stomach since last week doesn’t dissipate any further. _ I guess gallows humor isn’t the coping mechanism for me. _

“Same goes for you, Sasha,” Jon adds tiredly. “Anyone have the time?”

Martin pulls out his phone to check. “Five past ten.”

Jon frowns. “Elias, _ late?” _he mutters. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Maybe Prentiss ate him,” Tim suggests.

_“How?” _Martin asks. “Elias said she wasn’t infested with worms anymore.”

“I don’t know, the old-fashioned way? She still has a mouth.”

_“Tim,” _Jon warns.

“What?” Tim protests. “That was about cannibalism, _ not _worms!”

“Still not appreciated.” Jon slouches back against the other side of Martin’s desk. “Worms or no worms, even Elias doesn’t deserve to get eaten alive.”

Tim looks skeptical. “Elias, who decided to hire a woman — formerly a thousand worms in a trench coat — who tried to murder us all three weeks ago, _ and _ Martin even before then? _ That _Elias?”

Jon considers it. “... Point taken,” he concedes, not even bothering to chastise Tim for talking about worms this time. “But I wouldn’t let him catch you saying that.”

The words had barely left Jon’s mouth when the door to the main entrance of the Archives opens. Elias strides in, looking distinctly irritated. Following behind is… well, presumably Jane Prentiss, although without the worms, Sasha barely recognizes her. _ And it’s not like I was looking at the woman behind the worms too closely when I was trying to save Tim and get out of the Archives. _

Sasha takes the opportunity to study her now. Though she’d looked small and frail in the hyperbaric chamber, the Jane Prentiss before her now is long and lean: not as tall as Tim, but about as tall as Jon or herself and _ definitely _ taller than poor Martin, who is currently shrinking back into his desk chair at the sight of her. Despite the less-than-effective air conditioning in the basement, to say nothing of the sweltering August heat outside the Institute’s walls, she is in jeans and, incongruously enough, a brightly striped turtleneck jumper; the jumper looks strangely familiar, but Sasha can’t recall from where. Loose, wild dark hair tumbles in frizzy, tangled waves around her hollow-cheeked face and bony, sloping shoulders. Her face is striking, with heavy-lidded eyes, a thin-bridged, aquiline nose, and a wide mouth, and as she turns her head to take in her surroundings, the snaking silver scars pitting her face and neck shimmer under the fluorescent ceiling lights.

Sasha swallows. Even without the worms, there is still something subtly, creepingly inhuman about Jane Prentiss.

“Apologies for our delay,” Elias is saying to Jon; his previous irritation is gone and he’s regained his usual poise. “Good to see that your staff were all able to make it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Tim says, though his tone suggests otherwise.

Elias smiles tightly and then turns to Jane Prentiss. “I think some proper introductions are in order,” he says to her, indicating the people clustered around the desks. “Miss Prentiss, I’d like you to meet Jonathan Sims, the Institute’s head archivist, and his assistants: Martin Blackwood, Tim Stoker, and Sasha James.”

Jane Prentiss’ gaze moves slowly over each of them. Jon crosses his arms over his chest. Martin, now hunched as far down in his desk chair as possible, is shaking slightly. Tim tries to glare, but there’s more fear than anger in his look.

Sasha suddenly realizes that Jane Prentiss is looking at her and freezes, but forces herself to look back. In contrast with her languid movements, Jane Prentiss’ dark eyes are quick and alert. Sasha is surprised to find no sign of malice in them, only a keen curiosity as Jane Prentiss stares back at her with an intently searching gaze.

_ But what is she searching for? _

Elias speaks then, interrupting Sasha’s thoughts. “Jon, I haven’t heard anything from you regarding training or workplace duties or a workspace or anything of that nature,” he says coolly. “Which one of you is handling Miss Prentiss’ transition into the Archives?”

“That’s a responsibility I’d prefer not to place on one person,” Jon says tightly.

“And I understand that,” Elias responds, _“but,_ if managing Miss Prentiss is going to be a collaborative effort, I’d prefer at least _ one _ person to take primary responsibility: getting her settled and trained, answering her questions, mediating any issues, that sort of thing.” He looks pointedly at each of them. “So, I’ll ask again: which one of you is that person?”

Sasha glances around. Martin’s hardly going to volunteer; he’s gone completely pale and is shaking even harder than before. Tim is studying his shoes very intently, avoiding any eye contact whatsoever. 

And Jane Prentiss is _still _looking at her.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sasha sees a faint gleam as Jon’s jaw tightens, the subtle motion causing the worm scars streaking down his cheek to catch the light. She expects to feel relieved at knowing that Jon’s resolved to take one for the team, but instead, she feels _ guilty. _

_ Compared to you and Tim and Martin, I _ know _ I got off pretty easy. _ Her words from last Monday, when she gave her statement to Jon, whisper insistently in her mind. _ I mean, Prentiss personally tried to kill each of you — _

_ Is _ that _ why she’s looking at me? _ she asks herself, although she already feels like she knows the answer. _ Because I’m the only one in the Archives she hasn’t targeted? The only one she hasn’t tried to kill or — or worse? _

Sasha takes a deep breath. Her anxiety is still gnawing at her stomach, and her guilt continues to claw at her chest, and yet, she feels strangely steady and certain.

_ Well, _ she thinks, standing up from her desk. _ I guess it’s my turn now. _

“We’re, ah, still working on getting a fourth desk down here,” Sasha says to Elias, managing to sound more sure than she feels. It’s only a half-lie; no one’s put in a work order yet, but she can do that this afternoon. “But until she gets her own workspace, Jane can shadow me.”

She feels Martin and Tim’s eyes turn to her, both equally aghast. Jon looks even more guilty than she had felt just moments ago, but also quietly, painfully relieved.

Jane _(is she just Jane now? _ Sasha wonders suddenly. _ Not the Hive, not Jane Prentiss, but just… Jane?) _is still looking at her, but something in her eyes has changed. It might be Sasha’s imagination, but she swears that Jane almost looks intrigued.

Elias smiles approvingly. “Thank you, Sasha. Miss Prentiss —” he claps Jane on the shoulder “— I leave you in her capable hands.”

Sasha weakly returns Elias’ smile. Jane says nothing, but her eyes dart towards Elias and Sasha sees a new, fierce flash of emotion in her gaze: loathing.

_ At least that’s one thing we all seem to have in common,_ Sasha thinks dryly.

Elias lets his hand fall and turns his attention to Jon, his smile fading. “Jon, a word before I go? Your office.”

“Sure,” Jon says flatly. With no small reluctance, he straightens up and walks back to the open door of his office.

Elias follows him inside. “Carry on,” he calls over his shoulder to the still-dumbstruck Martin and Tim, and with that, he closes the office door.

No longer shaking as badly, but still quite pale, Martin immediately leaves his seat and hastens towards the Archives’ break room, mumbling something about tea. Throwing one final glare in Jane’s direction, Tim hurries after Martin. Sasha watches them retreat, her heart sinking in resignation.

Sasha turns back to face Jane. Jane has been watching Elias leave with that look of loathing, but as her gaze settles on Sasha once again, it is neutral, but expectant. 

Sasha takes another deep breath, the gravity of what she has just done finally settling on her. She has never considered herself to be the bravest of people — curious to a fault, definitely, but not _ brave. _

But she’s willing to bet that curiosity can do the trick just as well. 

“Hi, Jane,” Sasha says in as cheery a tone as she can muster without sounding panicky. Skirting around the edge of her desk, she approaches Jane and holds out her hand. “I’m Sasha.”

Jane looks down at Sasha’s outstretched hand, then up at Sasha, then back down at Sasha’s hand. Even though every muscle in her body is painfully taut, ready to run at any minute, Sasha doesn’t lower her hand.

After what seems like an age, Jane hesitantly takes Sasha’s hand and shakes it slowly. Her scarred skin is cool to the touch, and her long, thin fingers curl carefully around Sasha’s palm.

“Jane,” she says. Her voice is low and hoarse, but not harsh. “I’m Jane.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since everyone, including me, has their own headcanons about what the _TMA_ characters look like, what with podcasts being an aural medium instead of a visual one, I'm walking the perilous line between sticking to canonical character descriptions and branching out into descriptions based on my own and other's headcanons. In this case, I was very inspired by some excellent fanart of [Magnus Institute MVP Rosie](https://numinousnic.tumblr.com/post/188134527783/artcrystals-a-shout-out-to-our-beloved-and) by [@artcrystals](https://artcrystals.tumblr.com/), as well as fanart of [an especially dastardly, bastard-y Elias](https://numinousnic.tumblr.com/post/188095022020) by [@megzilla87](https://megzilla87.tumblr.com/).
> 
> On a similar note, this is [Jane's Lost and Found jumper](https://www.modcloth.com/dw/image/v2/ABAT_PRD/on/demandware.static/-/Sites-modcloth-master/default/dw1d01bc09/images/10119650_hit_repeat_cowl_neck_sweater_multi_MAIN.jpg?sw=913&sm=fit). <del>While I don't think it's as ugly as everyone in this fic thinks it is (believe me, I have seen worse), it's still not something I'd wear personally.</del> **(Did I believe this once? Yes. Have I seen the error of my ways? [Also yes.](https://numinousnic.tumblr.com/post/614877438393057280/brunetteauthorette99-me-six-months-ago-in-the) So thank you all for giving some love to the jumper!)**


	3. A Second Glance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regarding the remainder of Jane Prentiss’ first day as an employee, of sorts, of the Magnus Institute, and some disquieting reminders for Sasha James.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... Anyone else still _reeling_ from this week's episode? Because I sure am!
> 
> Anyway, many apologies for the delay — I lost quite a few days to mapping out an absurdly comprehensive timeline and outline for most of this fic, because AUs are fun to daydream about, but surprisingly hellish to plan. But at least I have an idea of how long this fic is going to be now (give or take a chapter)!

There’s something strange about Sasha.

The moment she had walked into the Archives, she had once again caught the scent of that sickly sweet herbal perfume that seemed to be woven into the knit of her new-old jumper — but less faded and sickly, more fresh and sweet. It had cut through the thickly musty atmosphere of the Archives in an instant, and she’d known just as quickly that its source was not just her jumper.

It didn’t take long for her to figure out what that other source was. As soon as Elias had introduced Sasha, she could almost see that familiar scent clouding the air around the other woman, the only other woman in the Archives; if she had opened her mouth to speak, she would have bet that she could have tasted it, too.

But when Sasha spoke up, a new suspicion kept her silent. Who’s to say this isn’t just another part of Elias’ plot? Slip her some scraps from her former life to gnaw at, seemingly unintentionally, and in doing so, force a connection between her and her captors? 

And who’s to say that this_ Sasha_ doesn’t know, that she isn’t in on Elias’ plot? Out of the four standing before her — the Archivist, the whimpering little man who had somehow escaped her _twice _now, the tall man with worm scars raking down his handsome face — Sasha was the only one she seemed to have left unscathed. Was that how Elias had convinced her to sacrifice herself, preying on her guilt and promising a solution in the same breath?

… That was what she _ had _ thought, at least. But then Sasha smiled at her, and held out her hand, and called her _ Jane. _ Not Elias’ clipped, cold _ Miss Prentiss _ or Rosie’s friendly, but formal _ Jane Prentiss, _ but _ Jane — _ just Jane. 

And Sasha… she’d made it sound natural. As if she’d never stopped being Jane, as if she had never been anything other than Jane.

So, she’d taken Sasha’s outstretched hand and, for the first time, called herself _ Jane. _

(She supposes that’s who she_ has _ to be, for the time being.)

But even after her suspicions have been subdued, Jane _ still _thinks there’s something strange about Sasha. It’s a gut feeling, nothing she can prove or disprove, but she’s always trusted her gut, riddled with her worms or not.

Sasha is afraid. _ That, _ Jane could see for herself when she’d stared at Sasha for the longest time as she’d tied her mind in knots trying to figure out whether or not she was part of Elias’ plot — Sasha could barely meet Jane’s gaze, frozen with fear as she was. And _ that _ was what convinced her, eventually, that Sasha, or the jumper that smelled like her, had no part in Elias’ plot. In stark contrast to Rosie, perfectly at ease around Jane in the ignorance that Elias had allowed her to embrace, Sasha clearly knew more than enough about Jane to be afraid of her.

And yet, even after the Archivist and her fellow assistants had abandoned her, gripped with an even greater fear, Sasha stayed. And, if she truly was not part of Elias’ plot, that meant she was _ choosing _to stay, scared though she was. Stranger and stranger. 

Jane couldn’t say she wasn’t intrigued, though. It had been a long time since anyone _ hadn’t _ run from her, let alone walk right up to her with no intention of running.

So, Jane lets Sasha pretend that she’s never been here before and give her a tour around the Archives: between the rows of shelves stacked with acid-free archival storage boxes, past the metal door to secure storage and the wooden door to a small meeting room and the empty doorway to a break room, and back to the ring of desks outside the door to the Archivist’s office. She lets Sasha chatter aimlessly about what she’s showing off and then ramble off-topic from there, and Jane only half-listens to what she has to say about the Archives as she watches Sasha for any sign of — of _ what, _ she doesn’t know, but _ something. _

Then again, maybe it was best to not look _ too _closely. It was foolish at best and fatal at worst to place all her trust in her eyes in a place like this.

“I’m just going to put in that work order for your desk,” Sasha is saying. She’s standing at her desk now, leaning over to type something into a form pulled up on her monitor. “And a chair. Probably a computer, too.” She shrugs. “I mean, I don’t know how much research you’ll be doing, but… just in case, you know?”

Jane nods absently.

“Hopefully, you’ll be all set by tomorrow. I mean, I’m still going to give you an overview of our research process this afternoon, but it’ll probably make more sense once you have equipment of your own. Learning by doing, and all that.” Sasha lets out a little laugh, seemingly becoming aware of her nervous rambling once again. “Anyway...” She clicks something on the screen and the form disappears, then she straightens up and faces Jane. “Since we’re kind of at a stopping point —”

Jane waits for her to continue. 

“Um.” Sasha pushes her glasses up her nose and takes a deep breath. “I was thinking about grabbing lunch,” she says. “Do you want to come?”

Jane stares at her, taken aback. “I can’t,” she finally says. Despite the fact that her appetite is finally returning, there is still an obstacle. “He’ll see.”

Sasha frowns, then her eyes widen as she figures it out. _“Right,” _ she mumbles, looking slightly embarrassed. “Jon _ did _ tell us that Elias said that you were — were to stay here.”

Jane nods again. She wasn’t exactly sure what she was supposed to do for lunch — starve? Return to her cell and hope there was food waiting for her? — but the fact remains that leaving is out of the question.

Sasha chews on her lip. “I can bring you something back,” she offers. “If you like.”

Jane shrugs. “If you like.”

“... Okay.” Sasha grabs her tote bag from her chair. “I’ll be back in a bit, okay?” 

“Okay,” Jane repeats. 

Sasha gives Jane a small smile, then she turns and heads out the main door.

Sitting down in Sasha’s empty chair, Jane spins herself around and surveys the Archives. It’s much smaller than she remembers it, and definitely a lot quieter than the last time she was here. The door to the Archivist’s office is still closed, but since there’s no muffled arguing coming from behind it, she assumes Elias, if not the Archivist as well, must have left while Sasha was giving her the tour. And since she can’t hear anything beyond the open doorway of the break room, she assumes that the other assistants — the tall one, _ Tim,_ and the scared one, _ Martin _ — have left for lunch as well. 

She is alone, then, for the time being. 

Standing back up, Jane meanders back towards the shelves behind the work area, her fingers idly trailing along the wood. Guided by memory and her gut, she keeps walking to the back wall, then turns right, back into the range oddly placed in the nook behind the secure storage room.

Even without the hazard tape outlining the shape of the trapdoor, Jane would still know it was there; the floor creaks differently under her feet here, inadvertently revealing the silent, hollow spaces underneath. And, though she isn’t sure whether she’s imagining it or not, there’s a sort of _ hum _in the air, both strange and deeply familiar.

Crouching down, Jane feels around for the concealed handle. After a moment of searching, her fingers dip into a subtle indent in the floor, and she winds them around the handle and pulls. 

The trapdoor doesn’t open. Jane pulls again, a little harder this time, but the trapdoor still doesn’t budge.

Scowling slightly, Jane lets go of the handle, but keeps her fingers on the floor. Trailing them away from the handle, she manages to hook one pinky into an even smaller, but deeper indent. A lock.

Jane huffs and stands up. A lock meant a key, and who else would have that key but Elias? She can always see if she can get into the Archivist’s office later, once everyone has gone home, but she doubts she’d find anything there. _ And if he hasn’t given it to the Archivist, he’s definitely not giving it to me. _

As she turns around and navigates her way out of the shelves, Jane swears that the humming hovering in the air over the trapdoor fades away with every step she takes.

It’s been almost twenty minutes since Sasha left the Institute, walked to the nearest Pret a Manger to grab two sandwiches and a fruit cup, and then retraced her route back to the Institute, and she’s _ still _cringing over her awkwardly extended lunch invitation to Jane.

_ “I was thinking about grabbing lunch; do you want to come?” Of _ course, _ she couldn’t have come, Sasha; she can’t leave the building, remember? And for good reason. _ The more Sasha thinks about it — no matter how much she _ doesn’t _ want to replay that moment in her head over and over — the more morbidly absurd the question gets. _ Might as well have said, “Hello, new coworker who got the job by trying to murder my entire department with worms; do you still feel like eating me, or is a Pret cheddar and pickle fine?” _

Groaning quietly, Sasha grabs the handle of one of the double doors into the Institute and pulls it open. _ Still. Could have been worse, _ she tries to tell herself, with little success. _ You’ve made it through the morning, Sasha. Just need to — _

“Sasha, _ wait —!” _Martin nearly barrels into her in his haste to get to the door before it closes, but he skids to a stop, fumbles with his own takeaway container, and eventually frees up one of his hands to grab the handle. “Thanks,” he pants.

“No problem.” Sasha holds the door open for him anyway as he slips inside. “Is Tim not with you?”

“I _ was _ with him.” Tim clears the last of the Institute steps and strolls towards them, taking a sip of the coffee he’s holding. “Then Martin decided to run _ back _to work instead of running as far away as possible.”

Martin flushes. “Well, I can’t exactly avoid the Archives forever,” he says, his voice very small. “And, well —” He glances at Sasha, looking a little guilty. “I_ might _ have panicked earlier —”

“Just a little bit,” Tim says, squeezing through the door and letting it close behind him. “I don’t blame you, though.”

_ “— but,” _ Martin continues, looking even more guilty, “I — I don’t know. I’m just — I’m _ really _sorry, Sasha.”

“Martin, it’s fine,” Sasha says gently. “I don’t blame you for panicking, either.”

“Yes, but — but —” Martin inhales, trying to pull himself together. “It’s just — look, I was alone for _ two weeks _ with Prentiss breathing down my neck. The thought of anyone else being alone with her for _ any _ amount of time, even just for a morning — I wouldn’t wish that on _ anyone, _not even —”

“— Elias?” Tim suggests.

“Not_ even _ Elias!” Martin exclaims. “And _ especially _ not you, Sasha. And I _ know _ you volunteered to take primary responsibility for her,” he adds before Sasha can say anything, “and I cannot thank you enough for doing that, but… I should have been there with you, anyway. And I’m so, _ so _sorry I wasn’t.”

_ “Martin,” _ Sasha repeats. “It’s fine, _ really. _ I’m fine.” She manages a smile. “No harm done.”

Martin looks neither convinced nor relieved, but he nods anyway.

“Unlike Martin, I don’t have as good of a reason to run,” Tim says wryly, but his face is serious. “I’m sorry, too, Sasha.”

“Guys, it’s really — it’s really fine,” Sasha insists. “Nothing happened. I’m fine, Jane was fine, everything was _ fine.” _

Tim blinks. “‘Jane’?” he repeats incredulously. “Since when is it ‘Jane’?”

Sasha is momentarily at a loss for words. _ Since it’s… since it’s her name? _ “I mean,” she manages, “it’s not like this is a really formal workplace. Or a really big department, for that matter, so…” She shrugs, not knowing what else to say.

“I _ guess,” _ Tim finally says, though he still looks deeply skeptical. “I don’t know, Sasha — first, the jumper, and now this?” He sighs. “Look, I know I’m going to sound like an asshole for saying this, but I don’t know if trying to be friends with her is going to work in this situation.”

“Wait, what’s this about a jumper?” Martin interrupts.

“Yes, _ what _jumper?” Sasha says, a bit testily.

Tim looks back and forth between them, eyebrows raised. “The jumper that Prentiss was wearing?” he prompts. “Is it — wait, Sasha, is it _ not _ yours?”

Sasha tries to visualize the jumper that Jane had been wearing: a turtleneck in a chunky, but worn-out knit, with bright stripes. It _ had _ looked familiar to her at the time, now that she’s thinking back on it, but she _ still _can’t place where it might be from.

“No?” she says. “I — at least, I don’t _ think _ it is. I think I would remember if I had a jumper like that.”

Tim frowns. “It just — I don’t know; it just looked like something you’d wear so...” He shrugs sheepishly. 

“Tim, I _ definitely _ think I would remember if I had given Jane one of my jumpers,” Sasha says, sharper than was probably necessary. “And I don’t know about being _ friends, _ but I don’t think it can hurt to try _ not _antagonizing her, at the very least.”

“... I _ guess,” _ Tim admits. “I’m still not terribly eager to make nice with Prentiss, but if it’s between _ that _ and…” He trails off, grimacing. “Well, it wouldn’t be worms _ now, _ but I bet she could find another way to murder us all.”

“That’s… optimistic,” Martin says weakly.

Sasha sighs. “I know this isn’t a good situation to begin with, but… I just don’t want to make things _ worse _ for anyone,” she says, trying to keep her voice as even as possible. “That’s why _ I _volunteered to be responsible for Jane in the first place, so you two or Jon wouldn’t have to.”

“Aren’t you worried, though?” Martin asks tentatively. “That — that she might target _ you? _I mean, she’s already gone after the rest of us, so what’s to stop her from —”

“Of _ course _ I’m worried,” Sasha interrupts, but not unkindly. “But I’m hoping being the staff member at the Archives that she has the least personal experience with isn’t necessarily a death sentence.” She shrugs. “I guess I’m banking on her being more… _curious _ than murderous.”

“That’s a hell of a gamble, Sasha,” Tim remarks. “And if it doesn’t pay off?”

Sasha chews on her lip. How could she explain Jane’s soul-boring gaze, searching for something unknown to both of them? How could she explain her absolute certainty, unfounded though it was, that something in Jane — something in _ herself — _ had profoundly _ shifted? _

“I’m trying not to think about that,” she finally says. “But, at least with you two around again, I’ll have backup if something _ does _go wrong.”

Tim smiles wryly. “Fire extinguishers and corkscrews. Just like old times.”

“Not as old of a time as I would like,” Martin says gloomily. He looks over at Sasha. “I… I do see your point, though. I might not trust Jane Prentiss, but… I _do _trust you, Sasha.” He smiles, but it is hesitant and strained. “And I’m not leaving you or anyone else to deal with her on their own again.”

“Seconded,” Tim says. “I mean, I don’t like any of this, least of all you putting yourself between me and Prentiss a second time.” He claps her on the shoulder. “But if you’re going to take the lead, the least I can do is watch your back.”

An unexpected tide of relief floods through her. “Thanks, guys,” Sasha manages. “I — I mean it.”

Tim grins, his usual self seeming to return. “Well, us lowly archival assistants have to stick together,” he says. “Better chance of survival that way.”

“On that _ lovely _ note,” Martin says tightly, “we should probably get back downstairs. Knowing Jon, he probably hasn’t taken lunch at all, and I don’t want to leave _ him _ alone with Prentiss, either — and _ Tim,” _ Martin continues sharply as Tim’s grin gets a little wider, “if you say _ one thing _ about Prentiss feeling peckish, I swear to _ God —” _

“I’m sure Jon’s fine, Martin,” Sasha says, laughing a little. “And if Jane doesn’t want my extra sandwich, he’s more than welcome to it.”

Both Martin and Tim look at the paper Pret bag in Sasha’s hands and then back up to Sasha, similarly incredulous. 

“Come on, guys,” Sasha says wearily. “We _ just _went over this.”

“Yes, yes, you’re right,” Martin says a little too quickly. “Absolutely. Let’s go.” And with that, he makes a beeline across the atrium and down the basement stairs.

Sasha glances at Tim.

“What?” Tim protests. “I’m not saying anything.”

“You’re thinking it, though,” Sasha says dryly, following Martin’s path.

“But I won’t _ say _ it,” Tim replies, hurrying after her. “I mean, I already made an ass out of myself over Prentiss’ jumper; I’m not going to add another stupid remark to today’s tally.”

“Has it ever stopped you before?” Sasha asks teasingly.

_“Ouch,” _Tim complains, but he’s smiling. “Seriously, though: I _am_ sorry about making a big deal out of the jumper,” he continues, sobering slightly. “I really could have sworn you had one just like it, but I guess I was just misremembering things.”

_ I think I would remember. I _ definitely _ think I would remember. _ Sasha finds with a start that her words are still strangely lingering in her head. _ I would remember — _

_ Wouldn’t I? _

“Don’t worry about it,” she hears herself saying. “Happens to all of us.”

Something is bothering Sasha; Jane can sense it from the moment she walks back through the door to the Archives. Sasha’s still as friendly as she was before leaving to get lunch, but somehow she seems more… distracted. Distant.

Swallowing her first bite of the cheddar and pickle sandwich Sasha had decided to get for her — not that she’s complaining _ too _ much; her stomach had painfully growled when Sasha had taken it out of the paper bag — Jane spins Sasha’s desk chair around again. Tim and Martin are back and seated at their respective desks, picking halfheartedly over whatever work they’re doing while sneaking wary glances at her and Sasha out of the corners of their eyes. 

Martin sees that Jane’s looking back at him and freezes. For old time’s sake, Jane flashes him a toothy snarl of a smile, then takes another big bite of her sandwich and messily chews it up, not breaking eye contact. 

Martin pales, gulps, and looks away. Tim glances at Martin, then over at Jane, and then turns back to his computer screen just as quickly.

Jane almost laughs. _ Too easy. _

There’s a slight scraping across the floor behind her. Swiveling back around, Jane sees that Sasha has pulled up another chair to her desk, and is busying herself with logging back into her computer. Her sandwich and fruit cup are sitting in the corner, next to a tray of files, but Sasha hasn’t touched them.

Sasha hits something on the keyboard and then leans back in the new chair, arms crossed as she waits for the computer to catch up. Her face is pensive, and her eyes keep darting over to Jane, but never for very long.

Jane swallows her bite of sandwich, then props up an elbow on the desk and leans directly into Sasha’s line of sight. 

Sure enough, Sasha looks straight at her. She opens her mouth slightly, then closes it, then opens it again, as if unsure of what to say. “How’s the sandwich?” she finally says.

Jane has a feeling that’s not what Sasha really wants to ask, but she answers anyway. “Good.”

Sasha nods. “Good,” she repeats, then looks back at the screen, her gaze still slightly vacant.

Jane takes another, smaller bite of her sandwich and waits.

Sure enough, Sasha looks back. “By the way, I — I really like your jumper,” she says quickly.

Jane cocks her head. She doesn’t know what she had expected Sasha to say, but it certainly isn’t that. 

_ Is it hers after all? _ she wonders. _ Does she know something I don’t? _But judging by the color rising in Sasha’s cheeks, it still doesn’t seem like she does.

“Thanks,” Jane says simply, and leaves it at that.

Sasha doesn’t. “If… if you don’t mind my asking,” she asks tentatively, “where did you get it?”

Jane scrutinizes Sasha, her curiosity and confusion renewed. _ Maybe it’s not hers, _ she muses. _ Maybe she doesn’t know anything about Elias’ plot after all. _

_ But then why would it smell like her? _

“Rosie,” Jane says after a moment. “Out of Lost and Found,” she adds, for good measure.

Sasha blinks. Oddly enough, she looks more perplexed than ever, even worried. “Why was it there?” she murmurs, almost to herself.

Jane raises her eyebrows.

Sasha’s eyes go wide, as if realizing she just spoke aloud. “I’m sorry; I don’t know why I said that,” she mumbles, seemingly embarrassed. She smiles, but her gaze is still troubled. “Anyway, where were we at? Research, right?”

Jane nods.

Sasha sighs, relieved. “Right. All right, _ so —” _she reaches past Jane, past her own lunch, and grabs one of the files off the top of the stack “— whenever Jon decides he wants one of the statements looked into —”

Content to let Sasha return to her usual rambling chatter, Jane sits back and continues eating her sandwich, even as her gut tightens and coils with renewed suspicions.

_ Something, _ she decides once again, _ is _ very _ strange about Sasha. _

The tape recorder is still on the coffee table.

Standing on the threshold of her living room, Sasha sips from her wine glass and stares at the tape recorder. She’s barely touched it since she smuggled it out of the Archives after Jane’s attack three weeks ago, and she hasn’t touched it at all since she brought it back home with her one week ago after finding out that Jane was alive. She just took it out of her tote bag, put it on the coffee table, and left it there; she keeps hoping she’ll come home after work one day and find that it’s no longer there, that whatever is on the tape within is no longer a concern of hers.

And yet, night after night, the tape recorder remains: a constant reminder of something she’d very much rather forget. If it hadn’t just been her imagination, that is.

Sasha sighs. As much as she would like to, she knows she can’t keep avoiding this forever. _ I have to listen to the tape. I have to hear what’s on there for myself. _

_ I have to remember _something.

Jane’s jumper has been bothering her ever since Tim brought it up this afternoon, even more so after she asked Jane about it directly. The more Sasha thinks about it — the whole time she was walking Jane through their research process, during her cramped commute home on the Tube at rush hour, while she was throwing together dinner — the more certain she becomes that it _ is _ her jumper. It _ did _ look like something she would wear; Tim isn’t wrong about that. But, for the life of her, she still doesn’t know _ why _ she thinks that, or, if that _ is _ the case, how it had come to be in the Institute’s Lost and Found for Rosie to pluck out and give to Jane.

_ Well, if I can’t get answers about that, _ Sasha thinks, taking another sip of wine, _ at least I might get some closure with _ this _ mystery. _

Taking a deep breath, Sasha walks into her living room and sits down in the center of her couch, right in front of where she had left the tape recorder on the coffee table. She holds down the button labeled _ REVIEW _ and listens to the tape within whir furiously as it rewinds. Then, clutching the stem of her wine glass a little tighter, she hits the button labeled _ PLAY. _

_ “Right, tell me again, please.” _Even over the distant sound of blaring fire alarms, Elias’ brisk voice is clear as a bell.

_ “You’re kidding!” _

Sasha winces. _ God, is that really what my voice sounds like on tape? _

On the tape, Elias continues speaking, maddeningly calm as ever, but Sasha cuts him off by holding down the button labeled _ FORWARD _ for a few more seconds. Then she presses _ PLAY _again.

_ “God, I hate this place.” _ It’s her again, but she sounds much different. This Sasha’s voice echoes uncannily in the cryptlike still of Artifact Storage. Her breath hitches at the end of the sentence, and she sounds terrified, even close to tears. _ “Did I ever tell you I first joined the Institute as a practical researcher?” _

A chill shoots down Sasha’s spine. _ This, _she remembers all too clearly.

_ “I had to analyze and investigate all the stuff in here,” _ the other Sasha continues. _ “Take notes after sleeping in the rusted chair, write in the memory book, all that sort of thing —” _

_ “The memory book”? _ Her heart jumps, and Sasha instantly hits the button labeled _STOP,_ even as her mind races ahead. _ The memory book. The memory — of _course.

Paradoxically enough, it’s all coming back to her now.

Now that she’s thinking about it, Sasha can picture that book strangely vividly: slim and slightly falling apart, with a green velvet cover and a single length of frayed ribbon looped through at the spine, like some kind of homemade scrapbook. There hadn’t been any telltale bookplate on the inside cover when it had come to Artifact Storage, but when Sasha looked closely, she could still make out a square stain of old, dried glue.

Sonja, fresh off the equally unenviable task of accessioning the book, had cautioned her against flipping too far into it, or putting too important or precious of a memory in there. _ Just pick something small, something you wouldn’t miss, _ she’d said as she handed Sasha a colorful square of paper, a marker, and a glue stick. _ And for Christ’s sake, _ don’t _ be like that poor sod it used to belong to and write directly on the pages. _

Sasha was having trouble thinking of a memory to willingly give up until she’d pulled off her jumper; even the coolly controlled temperature of Artifact Storage didn’t stand a chance against the blisteringly hot summer weather outside. She really did like that jumper, but she didn’t much care for the prudish great-aunt who had knitted it for her birthday a few years back, so Sasha scribbled a short anecdote of her opening her present onto the paper square, pasted it into a blank page of the book without looking at any of the other pages, and put the book back on the shelves as soon as possible.

It wasn’t until later that evening, when she exited Finsbury Park Station and was met with an unexpectedly cool breeze on her bare arms, that Sasha realized that her jumper wasn’t in her bag — and then, with a sinking feeling in her stomach, she had realized that she’d probably left it somewhere in Artifact Storage. But she was almost home, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to go all the way back to the Institute, _ especially _not to poke around Artifact Storage after hours, so she’d shrugged and resolved to look for it tomorrow.

_ And that was the last time I saw that jumper… until today. _ Sasha takes another sip of wine, but has a hard time swallowing it. _ Was it really in Lost and Found this whole time? Or was it — somewhere _else?

Sasha sighs and rubs at her temples. While she’s… _ somewhat _ satisfied that _ that _question has been more or less laid to rest without her really meaning to do so, she still has yet to find an answer to the question she was after to begin with. 

Draining her wine glass and setting it down on the coffee table, Sasha holds down _ FORWARD _ for a second. And then, steadying her hand as much as possible, she presses _ PLAY _ once more.

_ “Sorry. I’m rambling. No worms, though, so that’s good.” _ Even so, the other Sasha doesn’t sound much better than before. _ “... Oh. Hey.” _

Sasha leans forward, listening intently.

_ “I’ve found — I’ve found that table you were talking about,” _ the other Sasha says slowly. _ “Don’t really see what all the fuss is about. Just a... basic... optical illusion —” _ Static crackles softly over her words._ “Nothing special. Just... just a —” _The static is growing louder now, and Sasha strains her ears to try and hear what’s on the tape clearly.

_ “Wait —” _ The other Sasha’s breaths are coming shorter and shorter, and her voice is hushed and panicked, almost drowned out by the static. _ “Jon — Jon, I think there’s someone _here.”

Sasha presses her hands over her mouth, all too aware of her own shallow breathing.

_ “Hello?” _ The other Sasha’s voice is louder now, but it still has an uncertain tremor to it. _ “I see you! Show yourself!” _

Without warning, the static suddenly spikes into a high-pitched whine. Sasha claps her hands over her ears, but even through the tinny shrieking that distorts the sobbing breaths and the rapid footfalls as the other Sasha runs for the door, she can still hear the unearthly chorus of thousands of worms screaming through one mouth.

Then there’s a whistling rush of air and the hollow _ bang _of a door slamming shut, and the tape clicks off.

Shaking all over, Sasha slowly lowers her hands from her ears and forces herself to exhale, pushing out all the breath pent up in her lungs. As harrowing as it had been to listen to the tape, she feels… almost_ relieved. _She’d heard exactly what she expected to hear. Nothing unexpected, nothing more strange than the strange occurrence that she’d been documenting in the first place.

Sasha lets out a shuddering half-laugh. _ Just let my old fear of Artifact Storage stir up my imagination, I guess. _ She half-presses _ REVIEW,_ then sees her empty wine glass and reconsiders. 

_ God knows I need it. _ Releasing the button, Sasha makes to stand up.

_ “... YOU.” _

Sasha nearly jumps out of her skin at the sound, but her legs abruptly give out and she drops back onto the couch. She almost looks around for the unknown speaker, but just then, on the tape recorder, the Artifact Storage door slams shut once again.

It takes a moment for Sasha to process what just happened, but when she does, that old chill down her spine is colder than ever. Her hand is shaking so badly she can barely move it, but she steels herself as best she can and hits _ REVIEW _ before she can change her mind.

It takes her nearly six more rewindings and relistenings for her to finally hear it in its entirety. And what it is is no rush of air as the other Sasha — as _she_ _—_ shoved the Artifact Storage door shut, but a _voice. _Another voice, so much like her own voice and yet _not, _whispering three words in a hissing sing-song:

_ “... I… SEE… YOU.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On _that_ fun note, feel free to come scream with/at me over on [Tumblr](https://numinousnic.tumblr.com/)! It's pretty much all _TMA_ all the time now, but fair warning: if you're not caught up on the most recent episodes, proceed with caution because there are many (tagged) spoilers.


	4. Closed Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regarding growing suspicions among the Archives staff, and several strange doors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... So! How about that Season 4 finale, huh? Good stuff! Good, _terrible_ stuff.
> 
> Anyway, now that _The Magnus Archives_ is on hiatus until April, I now have plenty of time to dive into writing this fic without having to collect myself after every Thursday! (And also, I am even _more_ dedicated than ever on doubling down on this fic's utterly self-indulgent nature, with lots of dialogue and occasional plot, so be warned.)

The hum is still here.

Curled on her side on the wooden floor, one ear pressed against the trapdoor, eyes closed so that her hearing might be heightened, Jane listens. She listens as the hum rises and falls, its nectar-sweet melody swelling and subsiding as the tune slithers and squirms through the dead air below her. She listens as the hum ever so faintly vibrates through the wood, thrumming and buzzing against and into her ear, worming its way into her skull. And she listens, so _ very _closely, to what the familiar song whispers to her.

She has been listening to it for almost a month now, ever since she rediscovered it on her first day in the Archives. The listening has become her own private ritual, with its own timing and behaviors to observe. Every afternoon, whenever Sasha and Martin and Tim leave for lunch — and it _ has _ to be all three of them; otherwise she runs the risk of being seen — Jane slips back between the shelves, files under her arm to legitimize her presence there should she be carelessly caught, and retraces her steps to the locked trapdoor… and _ listens. _

The more she listens, the more certain she becomes of what it is. The song is not as loud, not as lovely, not as all-consuming of her attention as it once had been, but it is _ here, _and that is enough for now. Never mind the fact that she has been unsuccessful so far in finding a key to the trapdoor; she’ll find one someday. And someday, she will descend into the dank darkness below her, and follow the song back to herself.

Back to the Hive.

There is a creak of hinges at the edge of her hearing, and Jane shoots upright. As she listens, the sound is followed by footsteps, then by several familiar overlapping voices, and then another creak of hinges as the door to the Archives closes.

_ They’re back. _Jane grabs the files that she left on the bottom shelf next to her and then scrambles to her feet. After dusting off her jeans and jumper and patting down her hair, Jane hastily weaves her way back through the shelves, then slows to a more unhurried pace before she rounds the corner and comes into view.

“The Archivist’s office is through that door right there, Ms. Richardson,” Tim is saying to an unfamiliar figure: a middle-aged woman wearing a slightly wrinkled pantsuit, her once neatly-curled hair beginning to go askew. “He should be in there; I mean, I haven’t seen him _ leave _all day —”

“Would you mind… opening the door?” the woman, Ms. Richardson, says tentatively, her voice hoarse and ragged. “Just… check if he’s actually there, please.”

Tim flashes her a smile. “Sure thing.” He pats her on the shoulder, then goes to the door and knocks. “Hey, boss? You in there?”

A moment later, the Archivist opens the door; with dark circles under his eyes and a rumpled shirt, he looks even more of a mess than this Ms. Richardson who has come to see him. “What is it, Tim?” he asks, a touch irritably. 

Tim gestures at Ms. Richardson, still standing at a distance from the door. “She wants to make a statement,” he says. “If you’re still taking those?” There’s an odd edge to his voice, but Jane isn’t sure of it.

The Archivist narrows his eyes at Tim’s tone. “Yes. Yes, of course,” he says, almost grudgingly. He turns his attention to Ms. Richardson, opening the door to his office a little wider. “Come in.”

Ms. Richardson looks even less reassured than before, if possible. But she walks past Tim and into the Archivist’s office all the same, and the Archivist shuts the door behind them both.

As soon as the door closes, Tim turns to Martin, that smile still playing on his face. “I’m going on record now,” he says. “If Jon wants us to investigate, I call dibs on the follow-up interview.”

“Was _ that _the only reason you didn’t hit Ms. Richardson with the legendary Stoker Smolder in the lobby?” Martin asks dryly. “For shame, Tim.”

Tim holds up his hands in mock defensiveness. “Hey: with great smolder comes great responsibility. Upstairs — in the lobby of our workplace, with our boss’s boss walking her into the building — was neither the time nor the place to pull out all the stops.” He walked towards his desk, shrugging his coat off. “Not to mention that I consider it in poor taste to flirt with someone who’s about to make or has just made a statement.”

Martin snorts. “And here _ I _ was worried you were an unprincipled seducer.” 

Tim laughs, tossing his coat in the general direction of his desk. “‘Seducer’ is a bit strong, but I _ do _ have principles, thank you _ very _much.”

Stepping out from between the shelves, Jane looks from Tim and Martin to the closed door of the Archivist’s office to the closed door to the rest of the Institute. Then she looks at Sasha’s desk. Sasha had taken a scarf with her when she’d gone to lunch with the other archival assistants — a giant swathe of fawn-colored wool patterned in a red and navy plaid — but unlike Tim’s coat, thrown over the back of his chair, Jane doesn’t see the scarf anywhere at Sasha’s desk.

“Where’s Sasha?” she asks.

Tim and Martin both stop in their tracks. They look at each other, then at her, then back at each other, locked in a silent argument over who has to talk to her. On any other day, Jane would be amused at this latest example of their stubborn avoidance of her, but their hesitance today — especially in response to such a simple question — makes her peculiarly uneasy.

Tim sighs, resigning himself to answering her. “She’s with Elias.”

Dread seizes her stomach, sharply twisting it into knots. “Elias?” she repeats.

Tim raises his eyebrows. “Yeah,” he says, as if this should be obvious, not strange in the slightest. “We ran into him and Ms. Richardson as we were coming back from lunch, and he asked Sasha if she had a moment to talk. So: they went upstairs and we escorted Ms. Richardson downstairs.”

Jane considers this development, her dread deepening. She doubts Sasha knows about what she listens to at the trapdoor, but does _ Elias _ know? Has he _ seen _ her, curled childlike on the Archives floor, listening to the siren song of what she used to be, what she used to serve? Of course he has; he _ must _have known it was there already — just another cruel reminder of what her reward for good behavior could be, dangling just out of reach.

_ But why drag Sasha into this? _

“... Anyway,” Tim continues after a moment. “Sasha didn’t know how long she’d be, so she asked us to bring your lunch down and…” His voice trails off and he shrugs. 

Jane glances over to Martin. He is gingerly holding a paper bag between his fingertips, the kind of bag that Sasha brings back for her when returning from her own lunch. Jane wonders what kind of sandwich it is today; she doesn’t have strong preferences about what she eats, so Sasha tries to bring her something different every time.

“Martin,” Tim prompts. “You_ do _ still have the bag, right?”

Martin blinks, then snaps to attention. “Yes; yes, I do,” he says quickly. “Um…” He glances from Jane to the paper bag to Jane again, clearly nervous at the prospect of getting close enough to hand it over.

Jane extends her hand. “I don’t bite,” she says coolly.

“True,” Tim says dryly. He takes the paper bag from Martin and holds it out towards her. “From what I can remember before I lost consciousness, _ burrowing _ was more your thing.”

Despite the dread still lingering in her stomach, Jane lets out a short, sharp bark of a laugh. Tim looks taken aback, but only for a moment; the corners of his mouth twitch, as if he’s trying not to laugh as well.

Martin just shoots Tim a disbelieving look. 

Jane takes the bag from Tim and peers inside; today’s sandwich looks to be egg and tomato, and there’s a small packet of crisps in there with it, which is a pleasant surprise. “Thanks,” she says after a moment. 

Neither Tim nor Martin look like they expected her to say that. Eventually, Tim just nods awkwardly before turning back to his desk; Martin retreats to his desk immediately after. 

Paper bag cradled in her hands, Jane sits down at her desk — not at a chair pulled up to Sasha’s desk or in Sasha’s chair, but at her own desk — and props her feet up. Pulling out and unwrapping the sandwich, she starts to eat, but her gaze keeps straying to the Archives entrance: watching, waiting, worrying.

Sasha isn’t sure why she feels so on edge. Granted, she’s felt on edge for the past month or so — even more so after her unpleasant discovery of the unfortunately real unknown voice captured on the tape recorder she stole from the Archives — but with every step she takes as she follows Elias to his office, she’s finding it harder and harder to shake the creeping suspicion that she’s being _ watched. _

She decides to blame the portraits. There are several of them lining the hallway, executed in oils and hung in heavy-looking gilt frames, and all of them are of Institute heads; they’d passed Jonah Magnus’ portrait at one end of the hallway, and Sasha can see Elias’ portrait hanging just next to the door at the hallway’s other end. None of them are all that interesting, artistically speaking, but in her uneasy state, Sasha feels that there’s something uncanny about how the eyes were painted. It’s not as though they’re _ following _her, or anything like that, but Sasha swears that every single pair of those lifeless, depthless eyes has a gleam in it that doesn’t quite look like the light cast from the ceiling lamps.

_ … I… SEE… YOU. _The memory of that strange voice suddenly whispers from the back of her skull. Sasha squares her shoulders to stop herself from shuddering, and then immediately feels foolish for doing so.

God, _ pull yourself together, Sasha, _ she tells herself sternly. _ Whatever this meeting is about, it probably has nothing to do with Artifact Storage and — and _ whatever’s _ in there. And why would Elias even know about that, anyway? _

“I apologize for the last-minute nature of this meeting,” Elias is saying, “but I’ve been meaning to speak with you for some time, and I had to seize the opportunity when it presented itself.” He opens the door to his office and then stands aside, one arm extended across the door to hold it open for her. “Do come in.”

Swallowing her lingering unease, Sasha enters Elias’ office. It’s much smaller than expected, but the high, vaulted ceiling and the tall windows that take up almost the entire lefthand wall make it seem much larger than it actually is. The other walls are mainly covered with shelves full of old-looking leather-bound books, glass cases containing assorted curios, and a few small works of sculpture; however, the wall behind Elias’ desk is dominated by another peculiar portrait, that of a group of men seated around a table, in the vague manner of a Renaissance painting of the Last Supper. Sasha recognizes the figure seated at the center of the table — Jonah Magnus, looking just like his portrait in the hallway — but she doesn’t know who the other men are.

Elias notices her looking at the painting. “Magnus and the founding patrons of the Institute,” he offers. “It’s been in this office for at least as long as I’ve worked here, but I’m afraid I can’t tell you much about it.” He closes the door, and then crosses to his desk and sits behind it. “I was never a great student of the arts.” 

“I’m not much of an art person, either; I just... noticed it,” Sasha says hurriedly. She sits down in the chair in front of Elias’ desk and pulls her scarf away from her neck; now that she’s back inside, it’s a little too warm to wear. “So, what did you want to talk with me about?”

“Jane Prentiss, mainly.” Elias props his elbows on the desk and genteely folds his fingers together. “It’s been about a month since she started working at the Archives, and since you volunteered to be her… unofficial supervisor, I wanted to hear from you how she’s adjusting.”

“Oh!” Sasha says, surprised, though she’s secretly relieved that the topic isn’t any of the more dire possibilities she had worried about. “Jane, yes. Jane is… Jane is good; she’s doing fine.”

Elias tilts his head. “Really,” he muses, as if he doesn’t quite believe her.

“I went through most of the basics with her on that first week — training and such — while I worked with Facilities and IT to get her workspace set up,” Sasha elaborates. “She’s still shadowing me for the time being—” _ because I’m the only one who will willingly talk to her _“— but she’s a quick study, so I’m sure once we get something worth investigating, she’ll be able to handle it.”

Elias frowns slightly. “Have you not had a chance to consult her on an investigation yet?”

“Um… not _ yet,” _ Sasha says slowly. Granted, Jon _ did _have them investigating one vaguely connected case a week or so ago, but when Sasha had asked Jane if she knew anything about murderous mosquitoes, Jane had just shrugged. “But like I said, we haven’t had anything worth investigating lately. These days, Jane’s mostly working on Jon’s reorganizing project; she’s been a huge help with sorting all the mislabeled and out-of-place files.”

Elias nods, seeming to approve. “Well, I’m sure it will be a relief to have the Archives back in order,” he says. “I don’t know how many times Jon’s complained to me about the state that Gertrude left the files in.”

“It’ll definitely make it easier to cross-reference between old and new statements; that’s for sure,” Sasha agrees. She pauses; Elias’ comment brings to mind a lingering question of hers. “Speaking of… have you heard anything more from the police about Gertrude?”

“Unfortunately not,” Elias says with a rueful sigh. “The Chief Inspector has been considerate enough to keep me in the loop, but the investigation is proceeding at an infuriatingly slow pace. Apparently, they’re having some difficulties finding usable physical evidence, what with all the contaminating factors in the tunnels.” He meets her gaze. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, a — a constable came by to interview the Archives staff a few weeks ago,” Sasha says quickly. “I didn’t know if she’d been up to talk with you as well, or if there’d been —”

“Hussain, was it?” Elias asks. When Sasha nods, he continues. “Yes, she did drop in, but just for a few routine questions; she didn’t have any new information on the case. And you?”

“The same,” Sasha confirms. “She didn’t ask anything much of Tim or Martin either, and she didn’t talk to Jane at all. She_ did _talk to Jon for quite a bit, though.”

“Really?” Elias looks intrigued. “And he actually talked to her?”

Sasha almost laughs. “Seemed to.”

“Wonders never cease.” Elias leans forward, his eyes keen. “How is Jon, by the way?” 

Sasha hesitates. Admittedly, she hasn’t seen much of Jon for the past month, and though she hasn’t voiced her concerns to anyone, she’s beginning to get worried. While it’s far from unusual for Jon to sequester himself in his office, he at least used to _interact _with her and Tim and Martin on occasion: dropping a statement off at her desk with a dry remark, getting sucked into a debate with Tim over some outlandish topic, muttering his thanks to Martin for the tea. But lately, it just seems like he’s trying to avoid them. 

_ Why, _ she doesn’t know. While it could be due to Jane’s presence in the Archives, Sasha has a feeling that there could be more to Jon’s strange behavior than that. _ Although I’m one to talk, _ she thinks wearily. _ I haven’t exactly been myself lately, too. _

“I wouldn’t really know,” Sasha finally says. “He’s... throwing himself into his work, same as always. Maybe more so now that…” She trails off, settling for a shrug and an apologetic smile. “I don’t know. You’d really have to ask him yourself.”

“I suppose I should,” Elias agrees after a moment. “The last time I saw Jon was when he delivered the incident report on Prentiss’ attack, and he wasn’t exactly eager to speak to me then, but...” He shakes his head and smiles thinly, then sobers. “And what of you, Sasha?”

Sasha frowns, surprised. “What about me?”she asks tentatively.

Elias raises his eyebrows, as if she should know what he’s talking about. “I do actually _ read _ the reports that cross my desk, you know,” he says. “In his write-up, Jon mentioned that after you and I got separated while trying to make it to the manual release for the fire suppression system, you took a turn into Artifact Storage.” His expression is more neutral now, but his eyes are alight with a burning curiosity that takes her a bit aback. 

Sasha swallows, something heavy and cold sinking deep in her stomach. “I did,” she admits. “I was — I was desperate, and it was the first place I could think of to take shelter —”

Unexpectedly, Elias smiles, almost indulgently. “You’re not in trouble, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he says. “It was quick thinking on your part, and it very likely saved your life. I merely saw it in Jon’s report, and — well, I know you have something of an unpleasant history with Artifact Storage, so I can’t imagine that improved your day much.” His gaze seems a little brighter now as it bores into her.

Sasha feels her skin prickle with sudden goosebumps, but she does her best to focus on keeping herself calm and collected. “It didn’t,” she replies. “But you’re right. It probably did save my life, so it was worth it.” She offers another smile, one that she hopes is reassuring. “But I’m fine now, thanks.” _ Not that he asked. _

Elias returns her smile, but it doesn’t quite meet his eyes, the light in them now considerably dimmed. “Well. That’s certainly good to hear.” He leans back in his desk chair. “That’s all I wanted to know, Sasha. You can get back to work now — I’m sure Jon’s wondering where you are.”

Sasha doubts that, but she just nods and smiles again. Standing up and making sure her scarf is secured around her neck, she turns and heads for the door. She checks behind her as she opens the door; Elias is already engrossed in paperwork, so she slips out without saying goodbye and closes the door as quietly as she can behind her.

In the hallway, Sasha lets out a breath that she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Until recently, she hasn’t had much opportunity to speak one on one with Elias, but on the few occasions she had, it was usually fairly bland and professional. _ This _ conversation, on the other hand… well, frankly, it had been _ bizarre. _

Sasha glances beside her, acutely aware that she’s standing in front of where Elias’ portrait is hanging. Now that she’s closer to it, she notices that the eyes, small as they are in the grand scheme of the portrait’s composition, have been painted in precise, exacting detail, almost rendering the rest of the portrait clumsy and slapdash by comparison. They stare out at her, enigmatic and unreadable in their expression, but the light in them is disconcertingly familiar now. 

_ If they weren’t watching me before, _ Sasha can’t help but think as she hurries down the hallway, not daring to look back, _ they’re definitely watching me now. _

“I thought you told Sasha that you trusted her.”

Jane pauses, the archival storage box she’s sliding back into place balancing precariously on the edge of the shelf as she strains to hear the distant conversation. Martin and Tim never seem to talk when she’s around, but as soon as they think she’s out of earshot — like after she’s finished her lunch and vanished back into the shelves to continue organizing old statements — they talk _ plenty. _

Admittedly, Jane usually tunes them out — she has better things to listen to back in the shelves — but with everything strange going on today, Tim’s sudden mention of Sasha has caught her attention. So she pushes the box back on the shelf, as normal, and then quietly moves a little closer to the source of the conversation, taking care to remain out of sight of the desks.

“I don’t _ know,” _ Martin admits, sounding strained. “I — I do? Or I _ want _ to?” He sighs. “I think I might have just… said what I thought she wanted to hear. I _ was _panicking, after all.” He lets out a nervous little laugh.

“Well, you _ had _ been panicking earlier, but I wasn’t aware you were _ still _ panicking when we came back from lunch that first day,” Tim says.

“I can panic in many different ways, depending on the occasion,” Martin says bleakly. “You cope by making terrible jokes; I cope by panicking and doing anything to placate whatever or whoever’s causing my panic at the moment.”

A pause. Then Tim snorts. _ “Jesus. _ When you put it like _ that, _ I kind of think we need to get healthier coping mechanisms.”

“Don’t I know it.” Martin sighs, and then falls silent for a moment. Then: “Do _ you _trust Sasha, Tim? I mean, you’ve known her for a lot longer than I have, so…”

“I mean…” Tim exhales forcefully; when he next speaks, his tone is a lot sharper. “Look, Martin, Sasha’s my friend: not just my work friend, but my _ friend _ friend. I’ve known her since our early days in research, and… well, on top of all that, she also saved my _ life. _ So I _ should _trust her, right?”

“In theory?” Martin offers tentatively.

“Exactly!” Tim exclaims. _ “Except… _ I don’t know lately that I _ do. _ And yeah, the fact that I don’t trust Sasha like I used to _ does _ make me feel like a terrible friend sometimes, but… then I think about the fact that she’s decided to make friends with the very thing that was trying to kill me, the thing that she also saved me from, and I just —” He lets out a growl of frustration. “I don’t know! I just don’t _ know, _Martin.”

_ “Friends”? _ Jane frowns. _ Is... _ that _ what Sasha and I are? _

“No, I — I think I understand,” Martin says quietly. “I mean… Sasha’s a good person; she’s always been very kind to me, even when there was no reason for her to be. And she’s still nice and all, don’t get me wrong, but… something’s _ changed. _Ever since Prentiss —”

“That’s the other thing that worries me,” Tim interrupts. “Yeah, Prentiss is the clear culprit, but I don’t think that’s all there is to it. I know Sasha, and I know when something’s bothering her, and I _ know _ that something _ is _ bothering her. Not that she’ll ever admit it, of course; she says she’s fine, but —” A _ thud _ of a fist slamming into a desk almost startles Jane into revealing herself, but she stays silent as Tim continues angrily, _ “God, _ why can’t anyone else around here just admit that _ no, _ things _ aren’t _fine?”

“Is that… _ not _what we’re doing right now?” Martin asks timidly.

Tim laughs bitterly. “I mean… you’re not wrong.” He sighs. “I’m sorry, Martin,” he says, all fury drained from his voice. “I just — you’re the only one I can actually rant to right now. I don’t know how to approach Sasha about this, and I can’t exactly talk to _ Prentiss, _ and _ Jon —” _

“What about Jon?” Martin asks, as if he’s dreading the answer.

There’s a long pause, broken only by the soft scraping of chair wheels across a wooden floor. Jane inches closer to the end of the shelf she’s hiding behind.

“Look,” Tim finally says, his voice much lower and more urgent than before, “I’m well aware that Jon’s had a real time of it lately — what with literally _ everything _ Prentiss-related, _ and _ the fact that the corpse of his predecessor as Archivist was found in some tunnels that no one knew existed before Prentiss tried to use them to kill us — but someone _ really _ needs to have a stern talk with him about his newfound paranoia before it goes too far. Or far_ther,” _he amends with a snort. “I mean, he’s already staking out my house, so it can only go downhill from here.”

_ “What?” _Martin’s voice goes up an octave in shock, but he quickly lowers it again. “What — why — how do you know it was him?”

“How many thirty-year-old senior citizens with worm scars do _ you _know?” Tim retorts. “Yeah, I’m pretty damn sure that the guy skulking outside my house taking photos at two in the morning was Jon.”

Another pause. Then: “That _ would _explain the photos I saw on his desk a week or so ago,” Martin mumbles. “He said they were for a ‘performance review,’ but… it struck me as exceptionally odd, even for Jon.” He sighs. “Have you — have you asked him about it? Or reported it to anyone?”

“Oh, _ hell _ no,” Tim says vehemently. “And even if I _ was _ going to take it to HR or something, the stalking complaint would probably end up on Elias’ desk sooner or later, and, well — even if he _ is _Jon’s boss and could probably get him to stand down, I have zero faith in Elias’ judgement right now, for obvious reasons.”

“Even so, you can’t just do _ nothing,” _ Martin protests. “I hate to say this, Tim, but if you’re not planning on confronting Jon, then Elias might be your best shot at getting Jon to stop... _ whatever _he’s doing.”

“You don’t think I don’t know that?” Tim snaps. “Yeah, I _ could _ get Elias involved, and yeah, it would probably be pretty effective, considering how he got _ Jon, _ of all people, to agree to Prentiss working here. But _ should _ is another question _ entirely.” _

Jane decides she’s heard enough. “You shouldn’t,” she says, stepping out from behind the shelf.

At the sound of her voice, both Martin and Tim bolt upright in their seats, then whip their heads around to see her standing at the end of the shelves. Unlike before, they do not glance at each other; they only stare at her with a look that’s almost accusatory, but also deeply guilty.

Much to her surprise, Martin speaks first. “... Shouldn’t _ what?” _he asks slowly.

Jane crosses her arms over her chest. “You shouldn’t trust Elias,” she says. Her jaw unconsciously clenches when she says his name.

Martin’s stare turns into a glare. “And... we should trust you on that?” he asks incredulously. “Trust _ you _instead of Elias?”

“I didn’t say that,” Jane says tightly. “I said. You shouldn’t. Trust. Elias.”

Tim shrugs. “I’ll bite,” he says, spinning his chair around to face her fully. “Why shouldn’t we trust Elias? Besides the fact that he’s keeping _ you _ around for some reason.”

Before Jane can open her mouth to respond, the door to the Archivist’s office slams open, and the Archivist staggers out, clutching at his right upper arm; his hand and his shirtsleeve are both stained bright red.

“Martin,” he asks in a decidedly forced casual tone, “where did you put the first aid kit?”

“I moved it from my desk drawer to one of the kitchenette cabinets in the break — oh my God,_ Jon!” _ Martin has now turned all the way around to see the Archivist standing injured in the doorway, and his face immediately drains of all color. “What _ happened _to you?”

“Just a — just an accident,” the Archivist mutters, starting to walk past the desks. “I’ll get the first aid kit, patch myself up —”

_ “No! _ Absolutely _ not!” _ Martin shoots out of his seat, grabs the Archivist by the shoulders, and gently, but firmly steers him to his vacated chair. “You, _ sit. I’ll _get the first aid kit.”

The Archivist’s mouth flattens into a displeased line, but he grudgingly lets himself be manhandled into Martin’s desk chair. He’s almost sat down when his legs go out, and he plummets the rest of the way, his body going almost entirely limp.

Martin’s eyes are wide and horrified. “Jon, just _ how _much blood have you lost?”

The Archivist shrugs, then winces as the motion causes a bit more blood to seep from between his fingers. “Not enough to kill me, just enough to make me lightheaded,” he says. “He must have hit very close to a vein or something.”

_ “‘He’?” _Tim repeats, frowning. “But I thought that you and Ms. Richardson were the only —” He looks back at the open office door, then back at the Archivist, clearly confused. “Wait, is Ms. Richardson still in your office? She’s not hurt as well, is she?”

The Archivist inhales shakily, a strange, stricken expression on his face. “I — I don’t know,” he says quietly. “I don’t know _ where —” _He exhales hard, and then inhales again, more surely this time. “Where’s Sasha?”

“Um —” Tim looks back at the open office door again, then at the Archivist, and then back to the door, dread slowly dawning on his face. “She — she’s still with Elias, I think —”

“Well, Elias can wait,” the Archivist says shortly. “I need to talk to her, _ immediately.” _He tries to stand up.

Martin instantly pushes him back into the chair. _ “Sit,_ Jon. I mean it,” he says sternly, although there’s a tremor of fear in his voice. “You’re not going anywhere or doing anything until you get that wound looked at.” With that, he vanishes into the break room.

The Archivist scowls, but remains seated.

Tim finally tears his eyes away from the open office door. “Martin,” he calls, “do you need me to take out the —”

“No nips necessary, Tim; I bought a larger bottle of antiseptic.” Martin reemerges with the first aid kit in his hands and sets it down on his desk. “I had a sneaking suspicion we’d need it.”

“If Jon keeps getting injured, yeah,” Tim says. “Seriously, Jon, do we need to accident-proof your office or something?”

“I don’t see how it would have helped in this case,” the Archivist says through gritted teeth. “My office was not the — Martin, _ careful!” _

“Oh, _ Jesus.” _ Martin has pried the Archivist’s fingers away from his arm and is staring at a deep, bleeding gash. “Jon, I hate to say this, but this _ might _be beyond my ability to patch up.”

“I’d really rather not go to A&E if I can help it,” the Archivist says, “so can you just… _ please _take a look and see what you can do?”

Martin throws up his hands. “Fine. _ Fine. _ Uh… can you...” The color is rapidly returning to his face. “Can you take off your shirt? A bit? Just so I can get a better look at —”

“At _ what, _Martin?” Tim says with a widening grin; after the initial shock, Jane notes, he seems to be back to his usual self.

“At the _ wound, _Tim,” Martin says pointedly, his face still flushed. 

Undoing the top few buttons of his shirt, the Archivist pulls the fabric down around his shoulders, exposing his bare upper arms. Now that she can see it better, Jane observes that the wound, for how messy it looks, was made relatively cleanly; the edges of the skin around the bleeding flesh are not ragged, but smooth.

Martin crouches down to examine it closer. “Well,” he says with some finality. _ “That’s _going to need stitches.”

“Wonderful,” the Archivist says dryly. “Can you at least stop the bleeding before I throw myself on the mercy of A&E, then?”

Martin gives him an exasperated, yet strangely fond look. “Of _ course _ I’m going to, Jon.” Straightening up, he opens the first aid kit, grabs a bottle of antiseptic and a gauze pad, and soaks the pad in the antiseptic. “Brace yourself,” he warns, leaning over the Archivist. “This will hurt a _ lot _ more than flavored vodka.”

The Archivist nods stiffly, and Martin starts swabbing away the blood from the wound. The Archivist lets out a hiss of pain, but he stays still as Martin methodically cleans his wound, and then presses another gauze pad over it to stop any more bleeding.

“So... what _ happened?” _ Tim asks, breaking the silence. “If it wasn’t Ms. Richardson —” he throws another worried glance over his shoulder at the open office door “— _ who _stabbed you?”

The Archivist looks up, but before he can offer any answers, the main door to the Archives swings open. All heads immediately swivel towards the door.

Sasha walks in, but stops dead in her tracks. “... Oh my _ God,” _ she gasps, her gaze slowly moving over the chaos before her. “What happened?”

All Jane can do is stare back at Sasha, sudden relief pumping through her as her heart slams itself against her chest.

“Sasha!” Before Martin can hold him back, the Archivist is out of his seat and stumbling towards her. “Sasha,” he says urgently. “Have you seen Michael?”

“Michael?” Sasha repeats, her brow furrowing in confusion. “The distorted Michael, you mean?”

“Yes, that Michael,” the Archivist says. He’s clearly shaky on his feet, but he grabs her hands to steady himself. “You haven’t seen him?”

“No, I haven’t,” Sasha answers, her confusion fading into fear. “Jon, what’s —”

“Was there anything you forgot to mention when you were making your statement last time?” the Archivist presses. “Any further insights?”

_ “No,” _ Sasha insists, trying to yank her hands away. “Jon, _ please: _ let go and tell me what’s —”

_ “Are you sure?” _The Archivist’s eyes are shining and desperate.

Sasha inhales sharply, her eyes going wide. “I —”

Some white-hot emotion surges through Jane. Before she knows what she’s doing, she is across the room and her hand is wrapped around the Archivist’s wrist.

“She _ said,” _ she says, her grip tightening threateningly, “let _ go.” _

Both the Archivist and Sasha look at her, stunned. But the Archivist lets go of Sasha, and Martin, coming up behind the Archivist, hastily hauls him back to his seat.

“Oh God,” Sasha breathes, her face wan. “Was it — did _ Michael —” _

“Yes,” the Archivist says shortly, sitting back down.

“How did he get in your office?” Tim demands. “Martin and I were here the whole time; there’s no _ way _anyone could —”

The Archivist sighs. “There was — there was a _ door,” _he says. “Ms. Richardson — _Helen_ — walked in, and — and he walked out.”

Tim gapes at him. “Then _ where —” _

“She’s gone, Tim,” the Archivist says, his voice strained. “He — he took her. I —” He exhales heavily as Martin applies a new gauze pad to his wound and starts taping it on. “I — I didn’t even notice until it was too late. I told him to bring her back, he laughed at me, I lunged at him without thinking, and then —” He swallows. “Well. As Sasha can attest, Michael’s fingers are _ very _sharp.”

Jane glances over at Sasha. Sasha’s head is ducked down into the folds of her scarf, her arms wrapped tightly around herself.

“Well,” Tim finally says. _ “Fuck.” _

“My thoughts exactly,” the Archivist replies grimly. 

“What can we do?” Sasha asks quietly, raising her head. “Is — is there anything we _ can _do?”

“Well, _ I’m _ making sure Jon gets to A&E,” Martin says, pressing a last strip of tape onto the edge of the bandage. “Beyond that…”

“Someone find Sasha’s old statement on Michael,” the Archivist interrupts. “I’m going to listen to it when I get back, see if there’s anything that jumps out at me.” Grabbing Martin’s shoulder, he hauls himself to his feet. “In the meantime, prop open the doors down here and _ don’t _ open any doors you don’t recognize.”

“Got it,” Tim says, his face uncharacteristically serious.

Sasha just nods mutely. 

“Come on, Jon,” Martin says softly, pulling the Archivist’s uninjured arm across his shoulders. “Let’s get you upstairs.”

“Right. Let’s go,” the Archivist mumbles. Supported by Martin, he slowly makes his way to the door to the Archives. As soon as Martin nudges open the half-open door with his foot, the two of them slip through.

As soon as the Archivist and Martin are gone, Sasha haltingly walks to her desk. Pulling out her chair, she sits down in it heavily, her breathing short and shallow.

Jane follows her, coming to a stop at her side, unsure of what to do or say. After a moment, she reaches out, making sure that Sasha can see her, and she curls her hand around Sasha’s, giving it a small squeeze. 

Sasha looks up at her. Her face is still pale, and her eyes are still frightened, but she gives Jane a weak smile.

Inexplicably, Jane feels the corners of her mouth curl up.

Footsteps draw near, and Jane glances over to see Tim approaching, the expression on his face unreadable. “Hey, Sasha,” he says quietly. “Are you okay?”

Sasha lets out a shaky breath somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “What do _ you _ think?” 

Tim sighs. “Honestly?” he says simply. “I don’t know _ what _to think anymore.”

“Well,” Sasha manages, still sounding wretched, “join the club.”

Jane says nothing, but she grips Sasha’s hand even tighter.

Sasha is cautious, at first. She takes pictures of all the doors she passes through on a regular basis — doors in the Institute, doors within the Archives, doors to her building and her flat — and when in doubt, she pulls out her phone and double-checks. She stops looking out of the windows in her building’s stairwell, and she changes her route to work to avoid passing her usual café. And she throws herself into her work to avoid thinking too hard about _ why, _exactly, she was taking these drastic measures.

It works, for a few weeks. Unless Jon’s recording a statement in his office, all essential doors in the Archives are kept propped open. And with Jon finally passing along a few statements for further investigation, Sasha eagerly welcomes the opportunity to get out of the Institute for a few hours, as do Tim and Martin.

But after a while, Jon’s office door starts to stay closed, and the investigative work increasingly keeps them deskbound. Sasha starts drinking lattes in the mornings again, and every so often, she’ll glance out the stairwell windows as she hurries down to the street below, but she still doesn’t look too closely at the people.

And then, one brightly bleak morning, Sasha steps out of her building and onto the sidewalk, and as she does, she notices two new details about her surroundings far too late. One is that the door to the flower shop across the street is no longer a dull green, but a pale, gleaming yellow.

And the other is that Michael is standing right in front of the new door.

Sasha freezes, her mind racing ahead. It’s too late to go back inside, or to walk down the street like everything was normal; he — no, _ it — _ has already seen her, and there’s no pretending she hadn’t seen it. _ And even if I avoid it now, who’s to say it won’t find me later… or just stay in front of my building and wait me out? _

Praying once again that curiosity could be an adequate substitute for courage — even though she’s not feeling particularly curious right now — Sasha takes a deep breath and crosses the street.

The thing that she knows as _ Michael _ smiles at her, razor-sharp, as she approaches. “They don’t have any lilies today,” it says by way of greeting, nodding towards the flower shop. “Shame. I wanted to buy some.”

“What for?” Sasha asks warily.

“For you, of course.” Michael spreads its hands in a vaguely conciliatory gesture; its hands appear normal at a glance, but the fingers are still disconcertingly long and many-jointed. “An apology. For all those weeks of waiting in fear.”

Sasha raises her eyebrows. _ “Are _ you sorry, though?” she asks pointedly. “About Ms. Richardson, about Jon, about _ any _of it?”

Michael’s smile spreads wider, a little _ too _ wide as the edges of its mouth carve through its round cheeks. “Not about _ them,” _it says. “Only about your regrettable role in all of this.”

Sasha suddenly feels very small in Michael’s very tall shadow. _ “Why?” _

Michael’s smile abruptly vanishes, its mouth narrowing and pursing into what almost looks like a _ pout. _ “Are we... _ not _ friends?”

Sasha feels hysterical laughter bubbling up inside her. _ “‘Friends’?” _she repeats. “You — you stabbed my boss!”

“Some people would thank me for that, you know,” Michael says matter-of-factly.

“And — and you did _ something _to Ms. Richardson, and now she’s gone,” Sasha presses on, her voice beginning to shake. “Why her? What did she have to do with any of this?”

Michael laughs, and the sound echoes eerily, unnaturally in her ears; Sasha feels the beginnings of a headache press against the back of her eyes. “In the grand scheme of things? Quite a bit,” it says. “But Helen Richardson had played her part and wandered long enough, so I simply claimed what was mine.”

Sasha’s gaze darts towards the door to the flower shop. It’s still yellow.

“Oh, I’m not here for _ you. _ Not like _ that.” _ Michael tilts its head, studying her with shifting eyes. “You may not think so, Sasha James, but I _ am _ your friend.”

“Really,” Sasha says flatly, crossing her arms.

“Did I not warn you about the Flesh Hive — or whatever it’s calling itself these days?” Michael asks lightly. “Did I not pull one of its worms from your flesh?” As it speaks, its fingers brush over her right shoulder, and Sasha tenses at the heavy sharpness of its touch. “And are you and your Archivist and your friends not alive today because of my intervention?”

Sasha swallows. “You..._ did _do those things,” she admits. “But why?”

That knowing, sly smile returns to Michael’s face. “I’m curious about what’s to come,” it says. “Aren’t you?”

Sasha doesn’t answer.

Still smiling, Michael turns away, its limbs seeming to lengthen as it moves. It reaches out towards the door of the flower shop, its elongated fingers curling and winding around the doorknob. 

An old fear, half-forgotten amid everything else, stirs in the back of Sasha’s mind: a memory of a tall, thin, flickering figure at the corner of her vision. 

“Michael,” she hears herself say, _ “wait.” _

Michael pauses, its neck twisting at an impossible angle as its gaze falls on her. “Yes?” it asks, amused.

“You haven’t — you haven’t been —” Sasha momentarily struggles with her words. “Was — was that the only time you’ve been to the Institute?”

Michael hums in thought. “Not the only time,” it says after a moment, and it almost sounds melancholy. “But not for a very long time.”

“So…” Sasha says slowly, suddenly becoming very aware of the fear hollowing out her stomach, “aside from — from a few weeks ago, you don’t remember the last time you were at the Institute?”

Michael leans towards her, peering at her with kaleidoscopic, shimmering eyes. Now that Michael’s much too close to her for comfort, Sasha can see with a chill that its pupils are dilating and constricting independently of one another; moreover, they are not black, but a blindingly bright white. 

Most disturbingly of all, she can’t seem to stop looking into them: like a deer caught in the headlights, unable to do anything except wait for impact.

Michael laughs again, quieter this time, and the sound snakes down Sasha’s spine, making her bones ache. “Have you been seeing things, Sasha James?” it asks gleefully. _ “Strange _ things?”

All Sasha can do is nod, her mind dulled by the glow of its pupils.

Michael leans in even further, its pupils getting wider and wider. “Will you take a bit of friendly advice, from your _ friend?” _it asks. 

When Sasha nods again, Michael raises a single finger and points it at her, dangerously close to her face for how sharp it is. Then, its high, soft voice now deep and distorted, it says: 

_ “Don’t look any closer.” _

Sasha shudders. Michael laughs, delighted, and taps her playfully on the nose. Sasha flinches, blinking involuntarily.

When she opens her eyes again, Michael is gone, and the door to the flower shop is green.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't recall there being anything _too_ specific about where Jon got stabbed by Michael (other than the fact that it needed five stitches and he lied and told Martin he cut himself with a _bread knife,_ of all things; _Jesus_, Jon), so I took my inspiration from [this very thorough and well-drawn diagram of Jon's scars](https://numinousnic.tumblr.com/post/188019346621/biorust-art-i-have-a-slight-fascination-with) by [@biorust-art](https://biorust-art.tumblr.com/).


	5. Too Close

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regarding Sasha James’ further investigation into Artifact Storage, and the possibility of friendship for Jane Prentiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... One of these days, I will find a better way to write chapters for this fic than banging out 80% of it the day before and the day of my self-imposed posting date. But it is not this day.
> 
> In any case, enjoy!

Sasha thinks of nothing but Michael’s unsettling advice all through the rest of her commute to work. And by the time she’s climbing the steps to the Institute, she’s made up her mind to ignore it.

_ “Don’t look any closer”... why would Michael say that unless there was something to be seen if I _ did _ take a closer look? _ she thinks. Her pace quickens as she crosses the lobby; she takes the stairs two at a time and then hurries along the Institute’s silent corridors towards her destination. _ And, well… based on Michael’s reaction to my question, he — it? — he? Well, if Jon thinks of Michael as “he,” then why shouldn’t I? — _

_ He certainly seems to think there’s... _ something _ in there. _

Sasha swallows, her chest tightening. The thought of going back into Artifact Storage, with God knows _ what _ lying in wait for her, was far from appealing. But living in fear of whatever was in there, never knowing exactly _ what _it was — what whispering voice she had captured on tape, what shadowy form that haunted her nightmares — was much worse.

Sasha slows her pace, coming to a stop by a door. The door in front of her is mostly unremarkable — aside from its stronger hinges and lack of a window, it’s almost exactly like all the other doors she’s passed in this hallway — but it still seems to loom over her. Sasha is tempted to double-check the collection of door photos on her phone, but she doesn’t think she can ever forget what the door to Artifact Storage looks like.

She tries the handle. Surprisingly, it’s not locked. Before she can change her mind, Sasha opens the door and slips inside.

All of the lights in Artifact Storage are off. Sasha reaches for the panel of light switches beside the door, out of habit, but stops just short of flipping them on. Glancing over, she sees that, though the door to Sonja’s office is closed, there is a sliver of light underneath the door.

Sasha frowns. Though Sonja coming into work early explains why Artifact Storage isn’t locked at this hour, the fact that Sonja is around definitely complicates matters for her. She and Sonja have never been particularly close, even back when she was a practical researcher and in Artifact Storage daily, so Sasha doubts that Sonja will let her see the table for no apparent reason.

Not taking her eyes off the illuminated office door, Sasha lowers her hand from the light switches and lets the door to Artifact Storage fall shut behind her: just enough to give the appearance of being closed. Pulling out her phone and turning the torch on, Sasha tiptoes past the front office and heads into the labyrinth of towering shelves.

She retraces her steps quickly and quietly enough: down the broad main aisle and past the rows upon rows of compact sliding shelves with their locked drawers, then into the larger, taller shelves. The furniture section is at the other end of Artifact Storage, just beyond the sliding racks arrayed with paintings and other hanging horrors, and just before the crammed bookshelves and file cabinets lining the far wall.

The table itself is easy enough to find; the spiraling pattern engraved into the dark wood is distinct even through the table’s protective plastic cover. Sasha carefully pulls the cover as far back as she dares, wincing at the noisy crinkling of the plastic.

Sasha trains her phone's torch on the table. When she’d first stumbled across the table, the only thing that made it stand out to her was its pattern; otherwise, it just looked like any other vaguely antique table. But now that she’s getting a better look at it, it suddenly strikes her how _ odd _ the table is shaped. It’s not large or long enough to be a dinner table, and while its elegantly curled legs are more ornamental than functional, it’s not low enough to be a coffee table, or high and small enough to be an end table. It’s strange to conceptualize, but Sasha can’t help but think it’s almost as if whoever built this table only thought about tables as abstract concepts rather than as functional objects. The table isn’t any particular kind of table; it’s just… a _ table. _

… But if it’s in Artifact Storage, of course, it is_ far _from being just an ordinary table. 

Sasha crouches down slightly to examine the pattern. It covers every part of the table: twining around the legs, snaking up the side, spiraling inexorably towards the shallow square recess in the center of the tabletop. At first glance, the pattern appears random and chaotic, but the more her gaze traces its way along one of its many precise lines, the more Sasha becomes convinced of its orderliness and symmetry.

_ It’s not really a fractal, though, _ she thinks; her thoughts sound strangely far away, as if she’s caught in a dream. _ It’s more of — more of a _web — 

At the edge of her vision, there is a flicker of movement.

Sasha blinks, startled. Everything before her is suddenly, strangely dim; it takes a moment for her to realize that the hand in which she’s holding her phone has dropped listlessly to her side.

Her other hand is outstretched towards the table, fingertips almost close enough to touch the darkly shining wood.

Sasha jerks her hand back immediately. Heart hammering in her chest, she lifts her phone up, frantically casting the beam of the torch around her: at the table, at the plastic-covered artifacts around it, at anything she can see. 

Nothing.

Sasha almost sighs, but the sound catches in her throat as she hears something softly scuffing along the floor behind her.

Something _ very _close behind her. 

Brandishing her phone, Sasha whirls around.

Jane is standing there, one arm raised to shield her squinting eyes from the glare of the torch. 

Sasha had been ready to scream for help, but now, her voice comes out as more of a strangled squeak. _ “Jane?” _She quickly lowers her phone, but keeps the torch on. “What are you doing?”

Jane drops her arm; even in the dark, her gaze is piercing. “What are _ you _doing?”

“I asked first,” Sasha says, defensive. “How did you get into Artifact Storage?”

Jane raises her eyebrows. “The door was open.”

Sasha frowns. “So… the door to Artifact Storage was open,” she asks incredulously, “and you just… walked in? After everything that happened with Michael?”

Jane shrugs. “Didn’t you?”

“I mean… _ yes, _ but — look, that’s not the point,” Sasha says hastily. “What are you doing in here, anyway?” 

Jane crosses her arms over her chest, still staring at Sasha with that darkly keen gaze. Sasha doesn’t think she’s going to respond, but then Jane speaks. 

“I was going to the Archives,” she says slowly. “The door to — what did you call this? Artifact Storage?” Sasha nods, and Jane keeps going. “The door was open. And I —” 

Jane stops. Her eyes drop from Sasha down to the floor, almost in embarrassment, but then she refocuses on Sasha. “Do you remember the jumper I wore on my first day in the Archives?” she asks.

Sasha blinks, surprised. “Yes.” _ I might have forgotten it before, but… how could I forget it _now?

“The air in here smells like it,” Jane continues. “A _ little _ like it, at least. Mostly the jumper smells like —” She stops again. It’s hard to tell in the dim light, but Sasha thinks there’s more color in Jane’s cheeks than usual.

“Your sense of smell is that good?” Sasha asks tentatively. 

Jane grimaces. “Used to be better.” 

Sasha is almost tempted to pursue that point, but thinks better of it after seeing the expression on Jane’s face. _ Clearly, it’s still a sore subject. _ “So,” she asks instead, “what _ does _Artifact Storage smell like?”

“Like the Archives. But more dusty, more moldy._ Stagnant.” _ Jane inhales deeply. “More room for dead air in here.”

Sasha swallows. _ What a… _ lovely _ description. _ “Well. I... guess that makes sense?”

Jane cocks her head to the side, curious.

Sasha realizes too late what she’s said and winces. Getting caught snooping in Artifact Storage had _ not _ been part of her harebrained, spur-of-the-moment scheme, and getting caught and then having to explain herself even less so. Unfortunately, an explanation for her actions is looking more and more necessary with every second she stands here, desperately trying to deflect.

_Then again, it’s not like Tim or Martin or, God forbid, Jon_ _or Sonja caught me in here, _she thinks, chewing on her lip. _This is _Jane. _And… well, _she’s _had experience with weird stuff… so to speak. So maybe she won’t be as… I don’t know, judgemental?_

“What I meant is,” Sasha finally says, trying to sound more decisive than she feels, “that makes sense because — well, because that jumper _ used _ to be mine. But I lost it in here and then forgot about it because of — of one of those books over there.” She waves a hand in the direction of the bookshelves. “I used to spend a _ lot _ of time in here when I first started working at the Institute —” She stops, laughing nervously. “Sorry. I — I’m rambling again; the jumper really has nothing to do with why I’m here. But it _ does _ explain why you picked up that particular scent, so…”

Jane hums in agreement and nods. 

Sasha takes that as her signal to continue. “Anyway, I transferred jobs and I’ve done my best to stay as far away from Artifact Storage since then, but… during the — during your —” She flounders for a moment, trying to figure out the most neutral way to describe the event. “I hid in here. To get away from the worms.” 

Some spark of emotion flickers in Jane’s eyes, but she just nods again.

“I ran across this table,” Sasha says. Remembering that the table is still partly uncovered, she reaches down, pinches the edge of the plastic cover between her fingertips, and quickly covers the table entirely. “I don’t know how it got to the Institute. I think Elias wanted to get rid of it, but it was referenced in a statement, so Jon convinced him to add it to Artifact Storage.”

Jane’s eyes narrow, but she remains silent.

Sasha takes a deep breath; _ this, _ she feels, is going to be the most difficult part to explain. “I was looking at the table — _ staring _ at it, more like — when — when I heard something,” she says haltingly. “In Artifact Storage, with me. And I saw _ something: _ not clearly, just a — a shadow out of the corner of my eye, but _ still —” _She exhales shakily.

Jane speaks then, her voice low and even. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Sasha says. “Nothing — nothing had a _ chance _ to happen. The fire suppression system went off and… well.” She shrugs awkwardly. “The, uh — the _ screaming _ kind of snapped me out of — of _ whatever _state I was in, and I ran for the door and didn’t look back.”

Jane is quiet again. Sasha can see now that the look in her eyes is distinctly melancholy, but then Jane refocuses on her and that emotion is gone. “Why look back now?”

“Well,” Sasha says, “to be honest, I… didn’t really want to. I was really hoping that I had just been seeing things, letting my old fear of Artifact Storage get to me, but —” She sighs. “I had a tape recorder with me, when I was in here then. And eventually, I — I relistened to the tape, and… there _ was _something. A voice, on the tape.” A shudder runs through her at the memory. 

“And then, this morning —” She stops, almost thinking better of it, but then continues. _ I’ve already told her this much. Why not the whole story? _“I ran into Michael. The one who took Ms. Richardson.”

Jane frowns, alarm flickering in her eyes.

“Don’t worry; I’m fine,” Sasha reassures her. “Michael seems to consider me a… _ friend _ of his, so I _ think _ I’m safe for now.” She almost laughs upon remembering the absurd earnestness of Michael’s assertion, but then sobers again. “Anyway, I asked if he was what I saw in Artifact Storage. He said he wasn’t, but… he also told me not to look any closer. Which made me think there _ is _something in here after all, so...” She shrugs again. “Here I am.”

Jane nods. “Here we are,” she says simply.

Sasha is quiet for a moment. Then: “Do you know anything about that table?” she asks tentatively. “What it is, or — or what it does?”

Jane shakes her head. “No,” she says. “But Michael was right. You shouldn’t look closer.”

“Well, how do you know _ that, _then?” Sasha asks challengingly.

“It has... a _ pull,” _ Jane says slowly. “Not much for me, but it’s there. A small, insistent tug.” She meets Sasha’s gaze. “I think you felt it. Still do. But I imagine it’s… _ stronger _ for you.”

Sasha swallows, suddenly aware that she hasn’t moved from the table since re-covering it. “Yes,” she admits, taking a step away. “You… you wouldn’t happen to know _ why, _would you?”

Jane’s mouth tightens. “I’ve already been claimed,” she says. “You haven’t. Not really.”

Sasha frowns. “What’s _ that _ supposed to mean —?”

All of a sudden, there is a monotone electrical buzz from above, and all the ceiling lights in Artifact Storage stutter to life. Brisk footsteps begin to echo down the main aisle.

_ Oh, shit. Sonja’s back. _“We need to go,” Sasha whispers, quickly stashing her phone in her coat. “Come on. This way.” 

Grabbing Jane’s hand, Sasha ducks out of sight of the main aisle. With Jane in tow, Sasha weaves her way back through the shelves as stealthily as she can. 

Soon enough, Sonja’s footsteps pass them, heading for the back of Artifact Storage. Sasha picks up the pace, and when the door to the hallway finally comes into view, she all but runs for it. Quietly opening the door, Sasha ushers Jane through and then slips through, closing it securely behind her. 

Sasha sighs in relief. _ That was _ way _ too close. _

_ “Sasha?” _

Sasha gasps and whirls around.

Jon is standing in the hallway outside the door to Artifact Storage, staring at her and Jane with a distinctly baffled expression.

“Jon!” Sasha manages, trying to sound casual and not at all as startled as she probably looks. “Hi! I, uh — I didn’t expect to see you this early.”

“Likewise,” Jon says. His forehead furrows in what could either be confusion or suspicion. “What are you two doing here?”

“Oh, well,” Sasha stammers, “I — we — I was just —” _ Think, Sasha, _think!

Much to her surprise, Jane speaks up. “Sasha was giving me a tour of Artifact Storage.”

Jon frowns, suspicion winning out over confusion. “Is that so?”

“I haven’t seen much else of the Institute besides the Archives,” Jane says smoothly. “So I asked Sasha if she could show me more.” Her gaze slides to Sasha meaningfully.

Catching on, Sasha jumps in. “I didn’t want it to interfere with our work,” she says, “so I thought that earlier in the day would be the best time to do it. _ And _ so that we wouldn’t disturb Sonja,” she adds.

Jon peers around them at the closed door. “Is she in already?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Sasha said sheepishly. “I… didn’t exactly tell her we were coming. You know how Sonja gets about unauthorized access — not as bad as Diana, but _ still.” _She forces herself to laugh a little. “I thought she wasn’t in, but we heard her, so we rushed out of there pretty fast.”

After a moment, Jon nods. He seems to buy their story, but his demeanor remains wary. “Fair enough,” he says. “I’m afraid I’m the reason Sonja’s here early, but I won’t tell her you were here.”

“Oh?” Sasha asks, masking her sudden rush of relief with curiosity.

“I wanted to see if there were any new acquisitions that might be relevant to old statements,” Jon explains. “She said that there were a few, and that she could open up Artifact Storage early if I wanted to see them.”

“Well,” Sasha says brightly, “I won’t keep you then.” She inches away from the door and down the hallway. “Thanks in advance. For not telling Sonja.”

Jon nods absently and reaches for the door handle. “I’ll be downstairs in a bit.”

Sasha nods and keeps walking. Once she hears the door to Artifact Storage close again, she walks a little faster. Once she turns the corner of the hallway, out of sight of Artifact Storage, Sasha leans back against the wall, and then slides down to the floor, suddenly feeling very drained. 

Jane, right behind her, comes to a stop beside her and waits.

“Thanks,” Sasha finally says, looking up at her. “That was — that was some _ really _quick thinking.”

Jane gives her a small smirk, but then sobers. “Does the Archivist not know?”

“Ah… no,” Sasha says, flushing. “I haven’t told Jon. And — well, I don’t really want to,” she admits, glancing back around the corner. She and Jane are the only ones in the hallway, but she still keeps her voice low. “Not right now, anyway.”

Jane raises her eyebrows. “Why not?”

“Because — well —” Sasha sighs heavily. “Well, first of all, I don’t know what I’m dealing with: what the table is, what I saw, _ anything. _ And, well, Jon might not be as much of a skeptic as he used to be, but I still want _ some _ kind of proof before I tell him.” She swallows. “Granted, that’s… _ if _ I tell him at all. He… hasn’t exactly been totally stable lately, and, well… this probably wouldn’t help any.”

Jane nods. Her gaze is troubled, but thoughtful.

“You won’t tell him, will you?” Sasha asks anxiously. “Or Tim or Martin or — or anyone else? I just —” Desperation creeps into her voice. “It’s not like I _ want _ to keep secrets from them; I really don’t! And I hate that I am! But… I don’t want to worry them unnecessarily,” she says, ignoring the trembling of her lower lip. “Not until I figure out what’s going on.” 

Jane doesn’t say anything for what feels like an eternity. Then, she extends her hand down to Sasha. “I won’t,” she says. “Not until we figure out what’s going on.”

Sasha blinks. “You — you _ will?” _ she asks, disbelieving. “You’ll — wait, you’ll actually help me?”

Jane’s gaze shifts away from her. “Well,” she says, so soft that Sasha can barely hear her, “you’ve helped me.”

Unexpectedly, a lump rises in Sasha’s throat. “Thank you,” she manages. “Thank you _ so _much, Jane.” Gripping Jane’s hand, she gets back on her feet. “I mean it.”

Jane looks back at her, and her dark eyes are shining. And then her slight smile becomes a frown. 

Sasha hesitates. “What is it?” she asks nervously.

Jane peers at her cautiously. “Do you... want your jumper back?”

Sasha bursts into unexpected laughter, and all the tension instantly drains from her. “Ah… no. No, that’s fine,” she says. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s your jumper now.”

“Oh.” Jane looks surprised, but pleased. “Okay.”

And as they start walking down the hallway — undeniably better-lit than Artifact Storage — Sasha can see for sure that there is more color in Jane’s cheeks than usual.

The hum is fading.

Or, at the very least, it’s not as easy for her to hear as it had been. Jane can still make it out if she presses one ear to the center of the trapdoor and concentrates with all her might on the faintly falling melody, but it’s getting harder and harder for her to focus on it entirely. Her attention keeps slipping from the song’s subtle grasp, her mind drifting away to another worry: a worry that, in this past week, has somehow consumed her thoughts more than the fear of losing her corroding connection to her decaying god.

Something is seeking Sasha out. Jane knows that much, and knows it now to be the root of Sasha’s strange behavior over these past couple months, but _ what _ wants to claim Sasha for its own, Jane does not know for sure. The table in Artifact Storage is certainly a spider’s web, beguiling its prey with bewildering patterns and snaring it with a single touch. But Sasha also has a history with that which stalks through mirrors and lurks behind doors, and though the fractal-chaser calls her its _ friend, _Jane has her doubts about its friendliness.

Regardless of whether it is spider or stalker or something else, Sasha is _ scared. _And even though she hadn’t asked for Jane’s help, Jane had found herself offering it without hesitation.

_ Why, _Jane still doesn’t know for sure, even after all this time spent worrying over what she and Sasha are to one another. But, as strange as it sounds, now that the possibility has occurred to her, the idea of Sasha ceasing to be wholly human — or just ceasing to be — is a distinctly disquieting one. 

Jane thinks she might feel differently about this if Sasha had a choice in what chose her, if she had walked into it as willingly as Jane had: blistered hands outstretched towards the wasp’s nest as she ascended to the attic. But though Sasha had been chosen, she didn’t choose it. And she didn’t want anything to do with it.

_ And therein lies the danger to her. _

The hum dies as Jane rolls away from the trapdoor and over onto her back, frowning up at the ceiling of the Archives. Sasha’s choice or lack of choice aside, the fact remains that Jane had made her own choice: a choice to help Sasha.

Was it because they were friends? Was Sasha a friend? She and Sasha certainly _ seem _ closer than Sasha and this _ Michael _ who claims to be her friend. And Jane, uncertain as she is about Sasha’s situation, is somewhat sure that Sasha considers _ her _ a friend.

And whether she’s right about that or not, Jane knows that she has made up her mind to be Sasha’s friend regardless.

A creak of door hinges catches her attention. Jane realizes a little too late once the voices float back to her that it’s not the sound of the door to the Archives, but rather the door to the Archivist’s office. 

Cursing under her breath, Jane scrambles to her feet and grabs the file folders lying on the floor at her side. These were the last of the files to be reorganized; if she’s going to keep listening to the hum — _ if the hum remains for much longer, _she thinks bleakly as she hurries out of the shelves — she’ll need to find another excuse.

Much to her deepening dismay _ (how long _ was _ I lying by the trapdoor, exactly?), _ Sasha and the others are back at their desks, and, judging by their half-eaten sandwiches and empty coffee cups, they look like they’ve been back from lunch far longer than Jane had previously thought. But the door to the Archivist’s office _ is _ open, so even though time appears to be eluding her today, her hearing isn’t _ completely _failing her, at the very least.

“I have a feeling we’ll be following up on this one,” the Archivist is saying to the man he is escorting out of his office, “so we may contact you again if —”

The man is already shaking his head. “I’d really rather you didn’t,” he says. “Not even to tell me you’ve figured out what happened, if you ever do. I mean, it’s been bothering me long enough, but I can’t say I’m foolish enough to want an answer.”

“Well, that’s where us fools come in,” the Archivist says darkly. “You may not, Mr. Kennedy, but I would very much like to find an answer.”

“And I wish you good luck with that, I really do,” the man, Mr. Kennedy, says. “But as for me, I want nothing more to do with...” 

His voice trails off, and Jane suddenly realizes that Mr. Kennedy is no longer looking at the Archivist, but at_ her. _ And as he stares at her, shocked into stillness, his eyes grow wider and wider with utter terror.

The Archivist follows his gaze to Jane. “Oh, _ hell,” _he mutters under his breath.

“That’s —” Mr. Kennedy stammers. “That — that’s not — that can’t _ be —” _

“Thank you, once again, for giving your statement, Mr. Kennedy,” the Archivist says briskly. Shooting a glare at Jane, the Archivist takes the now-shaking Mr. Kennedy by the shoulders and steers him towards the door to the Archives. “We will respect your wishes and not contact you again regarding your experiences.” 

Mr. Kennedy nods frantically, then lunges for the door, throws it open, and dashes out of the Archives without a backwards glance. 

“What was _ that _all about?” Tim asks, pushing his chair back from his desk. Glancing to her side, Jane realizes just now that he and Sasha and Martin have been watching this whole encounter with great confusion and curiosity.

The Archivist sighs irritably. “Mr. Kennedy was part of the ECDC team called in to deal with the cleanup of the worms in the Institute — _ and _ the retrieval of the worms’ host.” He closes the door and then turns to Jane, still scowling. “Apparently, when he contacted Rosie to make an appointment to give a statement, she neglected to mention that you were _ still _ alive, _ and _working here, to boot.”

Tim lets out a low whistle. _ “That’s _awkward.”

Jane just shrugs. “Not my fault.”

“Debatable,” the Archivist says dryly, “but as I recently learned, Mr. Kennedy was also the one who discovered that you weren’t as dead as we thought, so I imagine you gave him a nasty shock just now regardless.”

“Again,” Jane says. “Not my fault.” _ That’s his problem. Not mine. _

“Well, whether or not you admit your fault,” the Archivist snaps, “Mr. Kennedy has lived in fear of you for a very long time.” He crosses his arms, his scowl deepening even further. “As his incredibly bad luck would have it, he was _ also _called in to deal with that wasp’s nest at your old flat.”

Jane feels herself beginning to bristle at the Archivist’s accusations. “Not. My._ Fault.” _

“Not_ that _time, anyway,” the Archivist admits, but his tone still has an edge to it. “Mr. Kennedy didn’t have much success exterminating the wasp’s nest, but your landlord did. Set himself alight and took the whole building with him.”

Jane snorts. “Good riddance.” 

The Archivist raises his eyebrows. “I take it you were not close.”

“Hardly,” Jane says flatly. “But the feeling was mutual.”

_ Serves him right, the rotten, greedy, burning bastard, _ she thinks, remembered resentment suddenly blazing through her, and a fierce satisfaction running with it. _ In the end, Arthur Nolan _ was _ shown what a real parasite could do, after all. _

The Archivist sighs again, pinching the bridge of his nose as he collects himself. “There was… someone else that Mr. Kennedy mentioned,” he says tightly. “We’d need to do some more digging to be sure, but his description matches that of a person of interest in another statement. The one about Ivy Meadows Care Home,” he adds, more towards the assistants than to Jane. “What was his name again?”

“Uh… Amherst, I think?” Martin offers.

The Archivist snaps his fingers in recognition. “John Amherst. _ That’s _the one.” He turns back to Jane. “I don’t suppose you would be familiar with him, either?”

Jane feels her nose wrinkle and her mouth twist into a grimace. “Familiar, yes,” she says. “Friendly, no.” _ The Restless Rot and the Hive might have served the same god, but that hardly made them _friends.

The Archivist blinks, almost as if he hadn’t expected such a direct answer. “So… you’ve associated with him, in the past?” he asks. “But not… worked _ with _ him?”

“Better to say we were associated by virtue of our state of being,” Jane says bitingly. “But I didn’t actively associate with him if I could help it.”

The Archivist frowns, more curious than condemning now. “Why was that?”

“Because the Restless Rot only delights in decay,” Jane snarls before she can rein herself in. “The sickeningly slow spread of disease and death. Inflicting pain more for its own pleasure than for a higher power. But the _ Hive — _ ” her voice catches at the old name, _ her _ name, but she soldiers on “— the Hive held _ life: _ thousands upon thousands of living, crawling, knowing beings in need of a head and a heart and a _ home. _ And that home was _ me, _and they —”

Jane stops suddenly. She raises a hand to her cheek and finds it warm and wet. Inhaling shakily, she wipes the sleeve of her jumper across her face. “They _ loved _ me,” she whispers, her voice finally breaking. “Love like I’ve never known. There was _ love _ in what I was, and the Restless Rot knows _ nothing _of that love.” 

The Archives is swallowed up by silence. Jane avoids the Archivist’s gaze and continues wiping furiously at her tear-streaked face, refusing to feel the weight of all the eyes on her: Sasha’s eyes most of all.

“... I see,” the Archivist finally says. His voice is quiet and uncertain. “I… think I understand.”

Jane raises her head. “Don’t try to,” she says, but her warning comes out more weary than anything else.

Across the room, Martin uncomfortably clears his throat. “So, Jon…” he says slowly. “Do you… _ want _ us investigating this or not?”

The Archivist sighs tiredly. “Not right now,” he says, turning back towards his office. “Just keep working on the overflow statements from Research. I’ll join you once I get Mr. Kennedy’s statement properly documented.”

Martin nods fervently. “Sure thing, Jon.”

Tim gives a lazy salute. “You got it.”

Sasha nods as well, but she’s not paying attention to the Archivist. Concern is evident in her eyes as she looks at Jane, but Jane doesn’t have the strength to face her right now. _ Friends or not, I don’t need her pity. _

“Oh, and one other thing,” the Archivist adds, opening up his office door. “Can whoever put up the Halloween decorations _ please _ take them down now? I don’t want any real spiders moving into those fake cobwebs.”

“Just give it up, Martin,” Tim says, laughing. “You will _ never,_ not in a million years, convince Jon to like spiders.”

“Which is why I’m not trying to convince Jon to like spiders,” Martin says defensively. He steps down from the chair he’d pushed over to the wall earlier, his hands completely covered in cottony clouds of fake cobwebs. “I just want him to give them a _ chance, _ that’s all. Don’t get me wrong,” he adds, shaking the cobwebs into a nearby trash can. “I _ know _that arachnophobia is a very common fear, but… I get the feeling that Jon isn’t so much irrationally afraid of spiders as he is —”

“— full of irrational _hatred_ for spiders?” Tim supplies helpfully.

“Exactly!” Martin exclaims. “And _ that, _I think I can work with.”

From where she’s slouched at her desk, Jane snorts disdainfully.

Sasha glances up from the statement she’s reading and over at Jane. Jane hasn’t said a word to any of them since her earlier outburst at Jon, let alone joined them in going through the stack of statements. Though her eyes are less red and her cheeks are less blotchy, the sullenly miserable expression on her face remains.

A fierce sort of sympathy surges through Sasha. Even though Elias _ had _ encouraged them to consult Jane on their investigations into the statements, the way that Jon had gone about it was hardly sensitive, and anything _ but _ neutral. And though Jon or Tim or Martin don’t seem to see it — or worse, just _ refuse _ to see it — it’s becoming clearer and clearer to Sasha that Jane is struggling to adjust as much as any of them. Sasha might not be able to understand the savage passion with which Jane spoke about the Hive, speaking longer and more eloquently than Sasha has ever heard her speak about anything before, but Sasha recognizes pain when she hears it.

_ Does she really miss what she was that much? _ Sasha wonders, gazing at Jane. _ Did she really love it that much, even as it wholly consumed her? _

Then a new possibility occurs to her, sending a chill shooting down Sasha’s spine. _ Was that what she meant when she said she had “already been claimed”? Is that — is that what lies in store for me? _

_ Then… why would she help me _ not _ be… “claimed,” if she loves that love so much? _

Sasha suddenly realizes that Jane is looking back at her. Sasha gives her a small, sympathetic smile and nods towards the box of tissues at the corner of her desk; she’d moved it over there earlier so Jane could reach it without standing.

Jane shakes her head, then turns away to face Martin, her wild tangles of hair falling over her face like a shroud. “You _ should _ hate spiders,” she says. Her voice is hoarse and bitter.

“I —” Martin turns around, realizes he’s responding to Jane, and then stops. But then, much to Sasha’s surprise, he continues talking. “I don’t. Hate spiders, that is. And I never will,” he says matter-of-factly, even though his voice is shaking. “I mean, people think _ they’re _ creepy, but not think that other arthropods are, and that’s never really made sense to me. Then again,” he adds, “I personally dislike worms, so I’m not one to —” He stops again, fear flashing across his face.

Tim freezes. Sasha holds her breath. 

Unexpectedly, a smirk curls across Jane’s mouth, but her eyes remain dark. “Well,” she says. “Worms _ are _different than spiders.”

“I mean... _ yes,” _Martin says tentatively. Clearly, he hadn’t been expecting such a measured response. “For one thing, they’re not even arthropods; people tend to lump annelids and nematodes and the like all together, but they’re actually all different phyla —”

Jane interrupts him. “Not _ that _kind of difference.”

“Then _ what _ kind of difference?” Tim asks, irritated. “Forget the scientific stuff; they’re both small-ish and they crawl or — or _ squirm _ around, right? It’s not _ that _different.”

“But... people react differently to them,” Martin says haltingly. _ “Fear _them differently.”

The full impact of Martin’s observation dawns on her slowly, but when it does, Sasha feels like she’s been hit square in the chest. _ So… whatever Jane once was and whatever the table and — and whatever I saw in Artifact Storage are, _ she realizes, _ none of them are the same thing. _

_ What’s after me isn’t the same love. It’s a different fear. _

After a moment, Jane nods wordlessly. 

Martin’s eyes widen, then narrow. “Wait. _ Really?” _he asks, disbelieving.

Tim is still frowning. “But — but fear is _ fear,” _he insists. “I mean, regardless of whether someone’s more scared by worms or spiders, at the end of the day, it’s all still fear, right?”

Jane shoots Tim an unimpressed look, but before she can say anything, the door to Jon’s office creaks open. Jon steps out, file folder under one arm; he still looks haggard from his and Jane’s confrontation earlier, but otherwise, no worse than he usually does.

Jon looks around; Sasha notes that his dour expression seems to lift a little when he notes that the Archive walls are no longer covered in fake cobwebs or paper bats. “How are the statements coming along?” he asks.

“Fine,” Tim says, closing the file folder he’s holding and dropping it onto an ever-growing pile. “I mean, it’s tedious, but so far, none of these statements sound legitimate.” He grins. “Research hates Halloween for a reason.”

“As do I,” Jon says wryly. “I’ll file Mr. Kennedy’s statement, and then I’ll join you.” With that, he walks past the desks and vanishes into the shelves.

“Well,” Sasha says, quickly changing the subject, “we better get back to it.”

“I... guess,” Martin says reluctantly, but he still looks perturbed.

Tim opens up the next file folder and immediately starts laughing. “Oh, come _on!” _he exclaims. “No wonder Research is having trouble keeping up with all the Halloween statements; they can’t even be bothered to weed the obviously fake ones out!”

“Well, how do _ you _ know it’s fake?” Martin asks challengingly.

Tim clears his throat and begins reading in an overly dramatic voice. “‘Statement of Brad Majors and Janet Weiss, regarding their night spent at the castle of Dr. Frank-N-Furter’?” He drops the voice and stares pointedly at Martin. “I rest my case.”

Sasha laughs. Jane doesn’t noticeably react, but there’s a spark of recognition in her eyes.

Martin rolls his eyes. “I mean, the names are fake and frankly, ridiculous,” he says, “but have you actually read further than that or —?”

Tim gapes. “Martin,” he says, “are you telling me that you have _ never _ seen _ The Rocky Horror Picture Show?” _

“I know what it is — sort of!” Martin retorts, reddening. “I’ve just — I’ve just never _ seen _ it!” He pauses. “Should I have? Has — wait, has everyone else here seen it?”

“Oh, _ multiple _ times. But at the very least: once a year, on Halloween,” Tim says. He sighs wistfully. “Eleven-year-old me was _ really _in love with Tim Curry. And to be honest, I still am.”

“I mean, who _ doesn’t _love Tim Curry?” Sasha asks, still laughing.

“People who I will _ never _ be friends with,” Tim says, grinning. “Say, Sasha… if I remember correctly, I believe _ you _ once told me you were in a shadow cast of _ Rocky Horror _in uni.”

“Christ, Tim, I can’t _believe _you’d bring up my theatre-kid days,” Sasha exclaims, covering her face in mock embarrassment. “But yeah, I was: every single year, actually. Me and the two other girls in the cast kept swapping parts in between performances, though, so I’ve gotten to play every female role at least once.”

Tim claps a hand to his chest. “My God, the _ talent _ in this room is just unbelievable!” He glances over at Jane. “What about you, Prentiss? I know you were more or less a thousand worms in a trenchcoat for two years, but you _ do _ know what _ Rocky Horror _is, right?”

Sasha crumples up one of the fake statements and throws it at Tim. Tim whips his head around, offended. Sasha just gives him a withering look.

Fortunately, Jane seems to no longer be in the foul mood she was before. “I… have trouble remembering things from… _ before, _but...” She shrugs, then flashes a smirk at Tim. “I’ve always had a good ear for music.”

Tim looks surprised, but also very satisfied.

Martin throws up his hands. “All right, Tim, you’ve made your point,” he says irritably. “I’ve been living under a rock my entire life and I need to watch _ The Rocky Horror Picture Show.” _

“On the contrary, Martin,” Tim says smugly, “I haven’t made my point _ just _ yet.” He cups his hands around his mouth. “Hey, Jon!” he calls in the direction of the shelves. “You know what _ The Rocky Horror Picture Show _is, right?”

A pause. Then, echoing faintly from somewhere in the shelves: “The _ what?” _

Martin’s face lights up, anticipating victory.

Tim looks utterly dumbfounded. “You know?” he tries again. _ “The Rocky Horror —?” _

“Tim, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jon calls back, his voice slightly muffled, yet very clearly peeved. “Also, _ how _is this relevant to the overflow statements?”

_ “Ha!” _ Martin crows triumphantly.

Tim slumps back into his chair, defeated. “Congratulations, Martin,” he says flatly. “I’ve found the one person who knows even _ less _ about _ The Rocky Horror Picture Show _than you do.” He glances over at Martin. “Clearly, you two were made for each other.”

Martin flushes, but he looks very pleased.

Jon finally reemerges from the shelves, no longer carrying the file folder. “What are you all yelling about?” he asks tiredly.

“Oh, nothing important, Jon,” Martin says innocently, cutting off Tim’s squawk of protest.

“If you say so,” Jon says dryly. Pulling up a stray chair to Martin’s desk, he sits down and grabs some file folders off the top of the stack. “Let’s get to it, shall we?”

Still a little pink, Martin sits down next to Jon and takes a file folder for himself. Tim sighs and shakes his head incredulously, then drops the file folder he’s holding into the trash can and reaches for another one.

Smiling to herself, Sasha takes two file folders from her own pile and holds one out to Jane. Jane looks surprised at her inclusion, but she takes the file folder, opens it up, and begins to look through it. 

And then, aside from the turning of pages and the shuffling of folders, the Archives is silent once again. But it almost seems to Sasha like a more _ comfortable _silence than before: something calm, something peaceful.

_ Almost. _

Sasha swallows, then opens up her own folder and starts to read, trying in vain to focus on any other fear but the one continuing to creep over her skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jordan Kennedy's statement is [MAG 55: Pest Control](https://the-magnus-archives.fandom.com/wiki/MAG_55:_Pest_Control). The Restless Rot is my own invented avatar title (or _avatitle,_ if you will) for John Amherst, inspired by his iconic catchphrase in [MAG 68: The Tale of a Field Hospital](https://the-magnus-archives.fandom.com/wiki/MAG_68:_The_Tale_of_a_Field_Hospital).
> 
> My love for Martin Blackwood and my stupid need for accuracy in fanfiction overcame my intense fear of spiders, because I _did_ look up biological taxonomic charts just for that throwaway line about worms and spiders being in different phyla. You're welcome.


	6. The Conspirators

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regarding sudden absences, and a confession from Jonathan Sims.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am shocked — _shocked_ that [this chapter didn't end up being a week late after all](https://numinousnic.tumblr.com/post/189323802862/brunetteauthorette99-so-im-a-dumbass-and-also). But hey: I'm not complaining.
> 
> Quick note before we launch into things: though I _did_ update the tags on this fic to include Hurt/Comfort <del>(my favorite tag of all)</del>, as well as include content warnings for this chapter in particular, I do think it's important to warn you all that this chapter is a lot more emotionally heavy than this fic has previously been. Without going too much into particulars, I've been struggling with depression and grief over these past two weeks, and reading back over this chapter, it became apparent that my emotions really seeped into my writing. So if you're in a similar headspace, take care with this one.
> 
> _ **Content warnings for this chapter are in the end notes.** _

The silence is killing her.

Feet propped up on the corner of her desk, her body tilted back in her chair, her eyes closed, Jane listens in vain. She’s never heard the hum this far from the trapdoor, even at its strongest; she knows she has no chance of hearing it now, especially as it has been so frighteningly faint in recent days. 

Unfortunately, she has no way to approach the trapdoor unnoticed and know for sure if the hum can still be heard. Though the Archivist is holed up in his office, as always, and though Tim and Sasha have already left for lunch, Martin, for some reason, is still here. And unlike the hum, Jane can hear _ him _ just fine: the creaking of his chair as he shifts in his seat, the bursts of clicking from his keyboard, his absent rustling of some papers.

Jane opens one eye and swivels her chair slightly to the side to get a better look. Martin appears to be fully focused on his work: so focused, he’s not paying her any attention. Normally, he would have shot her at least two nervous glances by now.

What_ is he up to? _Opening both eyes, Jane sits up and stares at him intently.

It works. Martin stops typing and turns his head. “... Yes?” he asks, uncertain.

Jane narrows her eyes. Normally, Martin would have been scared speechless. _ “What _ are you doing?” 

Martin looks uncharacteristically indignant. “What’s_ that _supposed to mean?”

Jane huffs. “It means,” she repeats, _ “what are you doing?” _

“What am _I_ _—” _Martin gapes at her, then frowns. “Wait, what are _you _doing?”

“Waiting.” _ For you to turn your back so I can go where I need to be. _

“Well,” Martin says archly, “I’m _ also _waiting.”

“Waiting for _ what?” _Jane asks through gritted teeth. This new, abnormal Martin is beginning to get on her nerves.

“Waiting for…” Martin’s newfound confidence is finally floundering. “... For other people to not be around?” he finishes hesitantly.

Jane looks pointedly at the closed door to the Archivist’s office.

“I was mostly talking about Tim and Sasha,” Martin says sheepishly. “Not that Jon isn’t a person; it’s just that his hearing’s not that great, so… I’m not _ that _ worried about him listening in or anything.” He scoots his chair away from his desk and ever so slightly closer to her own. “Look, I — I just wanted to ask…”

Jane raises her eyebrows, incredulous.

Martin sighs, and then starts again. “It’s just that — well, I’ve been thinking,” he says. “About what you said before about — about fear.”

_ Oh, _ Jane thinks. _ So _ that’s _ where this is going. _“I didn’t say anything.” 

Martin blinks, taken aback. “But you —”

“I didn’t. Say. Anything,” Jane repeats, cutting him off. _ “You _ drew your own conclusions.”

Technically speaking, she _ is _ correct; she hadn’t _ said _ anything about fear, only about difference. However, Jane doubts Elias sees her actions the same way — and, if she’s judged him correctly, he _ has _seen what she’s done. 

What was it he’d told her, on her first day in the Archives — be useful, not helpful? _ It wouldn’t help the new Archivist any if he knew everything all at once, now, would it? _Elias had said, smiling at some joke known only to him.

Jane’s beginning to get the sneaking suspicion that, knowingly or not, she’s been _ helpful. _

Martin looks subdued, but he’s hardly giving up yet. “So… there’s nothing else you can tell me?”

Jane snorts, swiveling her chair away. “Not without someone hearing.”

“Okay, but —” Martin protests “— I _ really _doubt Jon —”

“I wasn’t talking about your Archivist,” Jane snaps over her shoulder. 

Martin’s mouth hangs open for a moment, then snaps shut as the bewildered expression on his face fades into one of deep disquiet. “... _ Who’s _ listening, then?” he asks, his voice low and uneasy.

Jane is spared from having to answer _ that _question by a creaking of door hinges.

The Archivist sticks his head out of his office, disheveled as always. “Martin. Can we talk?”

Martin tears his attention from Jane with an apologetic frown. “I’m actually in the middle of something —”

_ “Now,” _the Archivist says, in a tone that brooks no argument.

Martin looks startled, but he hastily stands and hurries towards the Archivist’s office regardless.

As soon as the door closes, Jane is out of her seat and weaving between the shelves: straight to the back wall, sharply to the right, onwards to the range behind the secure file storage room. Dropping to her hands and knees, the impact echoing dully in the hollow spaces under the floor, Jane presses her ear to the trapdoor and, holding her breath, silently prays to hear something, _ anything. _

Nothing. 

Jane doesn’t know how long she stays there, listening as hard as she can for even the slightest of sounds. But as her trembling lungs begin to fail her, releasing her pent-up breath in stuttering, shaking sobs, she realizes that there’s no use in her listening if there’s nothing to hear.

_ Nothing. _ That awful word is all she can think of as she collapses fully onto the floor, tears seeping into the wooden floorboards pressed to her cheeks. _ Nothing left for me. Nothing waiting for me. Nothing for me to return to. _

_ Nothing of the Hive. Nothing of me. I am — _Jane opens her mouth, wanting to scream, but the sound comes out as a strangled whimper. 

_ I am nothing. _

One of the floorboards suddenly groans under additional weight. Someone gasps.

Breath catching in her throat, Jane sits straight up, tangled hair flying around her tear-streaked face as she whips her head around.

Martin is hovering at the end of the range, his expression a wide-eyed and stricken mix of shock, shame, and panic.

_ “What?” _Jane does her best to snarl, but, with no breath to fuel it, the word becomes a sob.

What color remains in Martin’s face drains, but his eyes remain red and slightly puffy. Then he bolts.

Bringing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around herself, Jane drops her head and lets as much of her body as she can go utterly limp, giving herself over to the weeping that shakes and wracks her bones. She squeezes her eyes shut, but the tears still come, burning behind her eyelids, so she opens her eyes again and lets her tears fall freely.

Though she is not listening to anything but her own shallow, shrieking breaths, Jane nevertheless catches the creaking of another door being opened and a sudden, distant chorus of overlapping voices. Then, a single pair of footsteps approaches: quickly at first, but then they slow down to a more careful pace as they round the corner. 

“Jane?” Sasha’s voice is quiet and concerned.

Jane curls into herself a little more and does not look up.

“Jane…” Sasha’s footsteps are softer now as she comes down the aisle. “Jane, what’s wrong?”

_ Jane, Jane, Jane. _ The name rings hollow in her ears. _ Is _ Jane _ who I am now? Forever? _

“Jane, _ please.” _ There’s a pleading note in Sasha’s voice as she comes to a stop at Jane’s side. “Talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong.”

_ I can’t, _ Jane wants to scream. _ I can’t. I can’t because you could never understand. I can’t because even _ if _ you understood, you could never accept it. You could never accept me for what I truly am. _

A faint slide of fabric on wood as Sasha sits on the floor next to her. “We — we’re friends, right?” Her voice is quiet once again, but much more hesitant than before. “We talk to each other. We help each other. You helped me before, and — and now, I want to help you again.”

Jane_ is who you’re friends with, _ Jane retorts to no one but herself. Words are still failing her, lost in her short, sharp sobs. _ The Hive is a _ family, _ and it has no friends outside itself: only those who fear it. You may love Jane, but you could never love the Hive. _

_ And you could _ never _ love Jane the way the Hive loved Jane. _

“I won’t tell Jon, if that’s what you’re worried about. Or anyone else,” Sasha continues. “But… you also don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. I can just… be here.” Her voice is unbearably gentle now. “For you.”

Something in the way Sasha says _ that _ gives Jane pause. Very slowly, she lifts her head and looks out from under the wild curls of hair shrouding her face.

Sasha is simply looking at her, waiting for a response. Her face is grave and drawn with worry, but her gaze is kind.

Jane inhales as deeply as she can in an effort to steady herself, but she’s still shaking. “You won’t tell anyone?” she finally says, her voice hoarse.

“I won’t.” Sasha reaches out, her fingers curling around one of Jane’s hands. “I — I’m not much inclined to talk to Jon right now, to be honest, but regardless: I won’t tell him _ or _ anyone else.”

Jane frowns at the sudden edge in Sasha’s voice. 

Sasha sighs. “Apparently, Jon was… a bit harsh with Martin,” she says tightly. “I don’t know what about, but Martin was almost in tears when Tim and I got back.” She glances back over her shoulder, towards where the desks would be were they not hidden from view. “Tim’s with him now, but Martin said that you were back here, so I —” 

Jane nods, sparing her further explanation.

Sasha swallows. “Did — did _ Jon _say something to you, too?” she asks slowly. “I — I know that he was — well, frankly, being a bit of a prick before, but —”

Unexpectedly, Jane snorts. _ As if the _ Archivist _ could have that power over me. _

“I’ll take that as a no.” Sasha almost smiles, but then sobers. “But… what _ is _ the matter, then? If you _ do _ want to talk about it,” she adds, her face still softly sympathetic. 

Jane ducks her head, unable to meet Sasha’s gaze any longer. “I — I’m not sure I can explain it,” she mumbles, a lump rising in her throat. _ Not without telling you everything. And I’ve already said enough. _

“You get used to the inexplicable in this job.” Sasha gives Jane’s hand a small, comforting squeeze. “Try me.”

Jane is still uncertain. If she speaks now, there would be no way for her to unsay it. And even if Sasha keeps her word and tells no one, _ Elias _ would know, sooner or later. 

Then again, if what was left of the Hive is truly _ gone _ — her connection to her god severed once and for all — Elias has nothing to reward her with for following his rules. 

And she has nothing to lose.

“I — I gave a statement here, before,” Jane says, still not looking up. “Did you read it? Before I...” She lets herself trail off, unsure of how to finish the sentence.

A pause. “Yes,” Sasha says quietly.

“Do you remember? How the Hive made itself known to me?”

“You heard it,” Sasha says simply. “A song.”

“A _ song,” _ Jane repeats, the word slipping out of her mouth in a sigh. “Oh, Sasha, it was so beautiful. So sweet. All the music in the world paled in comparison to that song, so loud and lovely and _ consuming.” _A tear snakes down her face just thinking about it, just remembering the song in all its grievous glory. “And for the longest time, I thought I would never hear it again.”

“Here.” Sasha picks up what she’s saying quicker this time. “In the Institute. After…”

“Yes. Here,” Jane says frantically. “But — but then I _ did.” _

Another pause, longer this time. “Where?” Sasha finally asks. Try as she might to hide it, there is a faint note of fear in her voice.

“The tunnels.” Jane moves her hand, the one that Sasha is holding, to the floor, pressing both their hands against the wooden floorboards next to the trapdoor. “I used to listen to it here. Through the trapdoor.”

“‘Used to’?” Sasha asks hesitantly.

Jane swallows. “The song… _ was _ strong. But it started fading. And now, it’s _ gone.” _ Her voice catches on the last word as her breaths become shorter and sharper. “I can’t hear it. I can’t hear the Hive. It’s gone, it’s lost, I can’t get it _ back —” _

Jane claps her free hand over her mouth, suddenly aware that she’s crying again. Her lungs are dry and empty and her ribs ache and shudder with every sob, but she can’t stop crying, stop hurting herself.

Sasha says nothing for a long time. Then, slipping her hand out from under Jane’s, she leans closer and wraps both of her arms around Jane.

Jane stills, her muscles seizing up mid-sob. But Sasha doesn’t flinch or pull back, and after a moment, Jane feels herself slowly relaxing into the embrace. She breathes in, more steadily this time, and all she can smell is Sasha’s herbal perfume.

Eventually, Sasha lets go of her, but she keeps one arm draped over Jane’s shoulders. Jane steels herself and lifts her head to meet Sasha’s gaze. Sasha is still looking at her with those same kind eyes, but something in her face has changed. 

Jane isn’t sure what it is, but she fears what it might be.

“Aren’t you afraid of me?” she asks quietly.

Sasha looks genuinely surprised by the question. “Should I be?”

Jane stares at her, uncertain. “I don’t know,” she confesses, and she means it.

This dimly-lit back corner booth in this dingy, crowded pub is the last place Sasha wants to be right now after the week she’s had. And frankly, Jon is just about the last person she wants to be here with. 

Though Jon’s always been a bit standoffish as long as Sasha has known him, his behavior this week alone — his invasive interrogation of Jane, his shocking curtness with Martin — has been alarming, and frankly, alienating. And if Tim’s murderous glowering and Martin’s nervous silence throughout the rest of the afternoon were any indication, Sasha was hardly alone in that opinion. Jon, for his part, seemed to have regained enough sense to stay out of their way, and the door to his office remained shut.

But then, at the end of the day, after Jane had left without a word to any of them and before she and Tim and Martin could make their exit, the door had opened. And the Jon that had stepped out — a more familiar Jon, stiffly awkward and surprisingly intense — had asked them to come with him. To a _ pub, _ of all places — and while Sasha recognized the name of the place as a favorite haunt of Institute employees, particularly those in Research, she couldn’t remember the last time she saw _ Jon _there.

“I’ll buy the first round,” Jon had said hurriedly before Tim could object. “It — it’s the least I can do.”

Tim looked about as enthused about the prospect of having after-work drinks with Jon as Sasha felt, so both of them had looked at Martin, waiting for his input — he was, after all, the one most recently hurt by Jon. But surprisingly (or _ un_surprisingly, Sasha supposed, given Martin’s feelings for Jon), Martin had just nodded in silent agreement and grabbed his coat.

And so, here they all are: crowded into this back corner booth, jostling elbows as they’d slid in and shrugged off their coats and jockeyed for space on the narrow bench. True to his word, Jon had dutifully gone to the bar for the first round as soon as they’d found a seat; there are now four pints of beer on the table, but no one has taken a drink yet. Despite the dull din of clinking glasses and the scraping of chair legs and voices upon voices all around them, all those sounds seem oddly muted back here: as if there’s an invisible wall between them and the rest of the world.

Jon is the first to break this strange silence. “I… suppose I owe you an explanation,” he says stiltedly. “For —” he limply waves one hand around “— all this.” 

“No shit,” Tim says flatly. “An apology would be nice, too.”

_ “Tim —” _Martin says, his voice small and plaintive. “Can we not —?”

“No. Tim’s right,” Jon says wearily. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ve… not been _ pleasant _to be around recently; I know that. And even if I explain to you why I — why I’ve been acting how I have, it won’t change how you all feel about me and my actions.” He looks up, his gaze serious. “So… I apologize. For being rude, paranoid, secretive, and almost impossible to work with.”

_ “And _for staking out my house,” Tim interjects, his face still stony. “Don’t forget about that.”

Sasha frowns. “I’m sorry, _ what?” _ she asks incredulously, glancing back and forth between Jon and Tim. “Jon, _ why?” _

Jon winces. “I’ll get there in a moment. But I — I’m sorry about that as well, Tim.” He swallows. “And Martin —”

Martin hesitantly looks up.

“I know I apologized to you this afternoon already, for what good it did,” Jon says quietly. “But I am still very sorry for — for assuming the worst of you.”

“Oh.” Even in this uneven, dim lighting, Sasha can still see a touch of pink in Martin’s cheeks. “It — it’s really fine, Jon. I mean, you had reason to —”

“Not a good enough reason,” Jon interrupts firmly. “And even if I did, how I handled everything was inexcusable. I shouldn’t have treated you that way, _ period.” _

“I —” Martin’s lower lip quivers. For a moment, Sasha thinks Martin’s going to cry, but then he seems to pull himself together. “Okay,” he mumbles, his cheeks still flushed. “Thanks, Jon.”

Though still far from pleased, Tim looks a little less dissatisfied than he had before. “Good enough, I guess,” he grudgingly concedes, reaching for one of the beers. “So. That explanation. And it _ better _be good.”

Jon’s jaw tightens and he folds his hands on the table. “I’ve been conducting my own investigation,” he says simply. “Into Gertrude’s murder.”

Tim nearly chokes on his swig of beer. “Sorry, _ what?” _he sputters.

Martin gapes at Jon, his eyes wide. _ “That’s _what you’ve been working on all this time?” he asks. “Jon, why — why didn’t you tell us?”

_ “Wait,” _ Sasha says, suddenly suspicious. “Did you — Jon, did you think one of _ us _ killed Gertrude?”

Jon doesn’t respond, but the slightly guilty and deeply embarrassed expression on his face says plenty.

“Oh my God,” Martin groans, burying his head in his hands. “Oh my _ God.” _

Unexpectedly, Tim starts laughing hysterically. “Don’t get me wrong, Jon; I am still _ really _ mad at you,” he finally manages to say. “I just — you thought _ Martin _ murdered an old woman? _ Martin?” _

Jon hunches his shoulders up around his neck, as if imitating a turtle retreating into its shell. “I… was pursuing all possibilities,” he mutters after a moment. 

“So… we were _ all _suspects?” Sasha asks in disbelief. 

“At some point or another,” Jon admits. “But if it’s any comfort, Sasha, you were never very high on my list of suspects.” 

It isn’t a comfort in the slightest, and they both know it. “I’m _ really _ curious, Jon,” Sasha says, not even bothering to hide the bitterness creeping into her voice. _ “What, _ exactly, led you to believe that _ any _ of us could be potential murderers?”

Jon still looks exceedingly uncomfortable, but his gaze is quietly resigned. “Well,” he finally says, “for the most part, I didn’t have anything solid: just _ hunches _ based on what I observed and what evidence I could track down. But in your case, Sasha, it was nothing that _ you _did; it was mostly that whole business with Michael that put me on edge. Well,” he added after a beat, “that and your missing tape from Prentiss’ attack on the Institute, but I eventually concluded that it was… probably unrelated to Gertrude’s murder.”

“And it was,” Sasha says pointedly. _ It’s related to something that’s… well, probably much worse than a murder. _

_ Something I am even _ less _ inclined than ever to tell Jon about, in light of recent events. _

“Yes, of course,” Jon says hurriedly. “I — I realize that now.”

Sasha really doubts that, but decides it’s not worth saying.

Mercifully, Tim cuts in; while he’s no longer laughing, he still looks darkly amused. _ “So,” _ he says, taking another drink, “why’d you think _ I _was a murderer?”

“To be honest, it was your CV,” Jon confesses. “A first in Anthropology from Trinity College, five successful years climbing the ladder at a major publishing house — and then you come work for the _ Institute? _It just —” He shrugs, at a loss for words. “I don’t know. There was nothing to indicate a preexisting interest in the paranormal, so it just seemed a little… out of the blue.”

“People _ can _ change career paths, you know; it’s not _ that _unusual,” Tim says dryly. “And that’s exactly what I did.”

“Why, though?” Jon asks. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Actually, I _ do _mind, Jon,” Tim retorts, glaring at him with rancor that surprises even Sasha. “I mean, are you done with treating us like suspects, or are you not?”

“I — I am. Done with all that, that is.” Jon sighs. “You’re right, Tim; I — I shouldn’t have asked. I’m sorry.”

Tim waves away the apology. “And Martin?” he asks with a humorless laugh. “What the _ hell _ led you to suspect _ him _of murder?”

“It wasn’t all that important, either,” Martin interjects before Jon can say anything. “Jon just… misinterpreted some documents that I’d thrown out, that’s all.”

Tim raises his eyebrows. “What, like your poetry?”

_ “Not _ Martin’s poetry,” Jon corrects with a slightly pained face. “Although I did read some… _ very _ rough drafts in the process of going through the wastebasket.”

“Oh?” Despite looking a little nervous, Martin perks up immediately.

Jon suddenly seems to find his folded hands _ very _ interesting. “It was... better than I expected,” he says awkwardly, not meeting Martin’s curious gaze. “Some of it was a little too Keatsian for my tastes, but… _ fine. _ It was fine.” 

“Oh!” Martin is clearly flustered, but also inordinately pleased with himself. _ “Well. _ Um. Thanks, I guess.”

Tim shoots a familiar, fondly exasperated glance at Sasha. Sasha returns it with a helpless shrug. _ At least _ some _ things haven’t changed. _

“Anyway,” Martin says after a moment. “So, uh… now that you’ve ruled us all out as suspects —”

“Which we should never have been in the first place,” Tim remarks.

“— is there anything _ else _you’ve found?” Martin finishes.

“Any _ actual _ evidence?” Tim adds with a mocking grin.

“I mean — _ yes. _ Yes, I have,” Jon says testily, shooting a sour glance at Tim. “But… well, quite frankly, I don’t know what to make of it all. It’s pointing to _ something; _ I know it is, but… I don’t know what it all _ means.” _

Sasha studies Jon for a moment. Jon admitting uncertainty is a rare thing, but Jon admitting_ ignorance _ is unprecedented. It also makes her feel unexpectedly uneasy. _ What has he found? _

“Well,” she offers hesitantly, “maybe we can help you make sense of it. If you want to tell us about it, anyway,” she adds, trying to keep the sharpness from her voice.

Jon looks over at her, his expression unreadable. “No, I want to,” he says quietly. “That — that’s part of the reason I asked you all here tonight.” He sighs. “And, well… Gertrude’s murder might be personally concerning to me, considering_ I _have her job now, but I have a suspicion that what I’m finding is going to concern all of you eventually.”

“Smashing,” Tim says wryly. He takes a deep, sustained drink from his beer. “So: what _ have _ you found?”

“Well,” Jon says, “in regards to Gertrude herself, it’s what I _ haven’t _found that concerns me. If she kept any sort of notes or records of whatever she was working on when she died, they’re certainly well-hidden; I found a laptop charger in her flat, but there wasn’t —”

“Wait, wait, hang on,” Tim interrupts. “Jon, did — did you _ break _into Gertrude’s flat?”

Jon grimaces. “It was… a spur-of-the-moment decision. And not especially well-executed. But yes, I did.” He props his elbows on the table, putting his folded hands underneath his chin. “The laptop charger was the only thing of interest I found. Gertrude lived a very minimalist existence: no photos, no knickknacks, no personal effects of any kind. Had a fair number of books, but it looked like she threw them out once she was done reading them.” His frown deepens. “Even stranger, if any of those books had people’s faces on the cover, she… well, it looks like she cut out and removed their eyes from the picture.”

Martin pulls a face. “That’s… definitely weird.”

“I mean, _ yeah, _ but it’s not evidence in itself,” Tim says. “Anything else?”

Jon pauses. “I’ve been listening to some of Gertrude’s old recordings,” he finally says. “From the tapes they found with her — her corpse.” He clears his throat uncomfortably. “I’ve only gotten two so far; they’re still considered police evidence, so it’s hard for Basira to smuggle them out without being noticed.”

Tim blinks, surprised. “Wait a second,” he says slowly. “So… you and that policewoman weren’t —” He looks expectantly at Jon. “Oh, you _ know. _ Canoodling?”

_ “No, _ Tim, we were not _ canoodling,” _Jon says tightly. “I wasn’t lying when I said I was helping her with the investigation off the record; you just drew your own conclusions. But Basira thought it would be a plausible cover story, so I never actually got around to refuting you.”

Tim shrugs, reluctantly conceding the point, but he still looks profoundly disappointed. Martin, on the other hand, looks smugly vindicated.

“What were the tapes about?” Sasha asks, trying to get things back on track. 

“Nothing of importance,” Jon admits. “Interesting cases, yes, but… not exactly relevant to her murder.” He sighs, his expression perturbed. “But the way she spoke about these things… clearly, Gertrude knew a lot more about _ whatever _was going on than I initially gave her credit for. And, more worryingly, it sounds like whatever she was up to, she was working on it alone; it didn’t seem like she particularly trusted the Institute or any of her coworkers.”

“Now, who does _ that _sound like?” Tim asks sarcastically.

“I _ know, _Tim,” Jon says irritably. “For all I know, that could be why Elias hired me as her replacement.”

Tim chuckles tiredly, then sobers. “Speaking of… I’m guessing you haven’t told Elias about your investigation?”

Jon snorts. “Well, considering his name is the only one left on my list of suspects, _ no, _I haven’t told him.”

Taken aback, Sasha glances over at Tim and Martin; both of them look equally startled by Jon’s admission. “I mean,” she manages, “I know Elias has been acting strange lately… but _ murder?” _

“I’m with Sasha on this, Jon,” Tim says. “Is Elias a bureaucratic bastard and a waste of a perfectly good suit? Absolutely. But is he a murderer?” He shrugs, uncertain. “I’ll be honest: he does _ not _strike me as the type to get his hands dirty.”

“I recognize that, but even if Elias wasn’t the only remaining suspect, he’s been my most likely suspect from the beginning,” Jon replies. “There aren’t any current Institute employees who were acquainted with him before he became head of the Institute; Gertrude was the last of them.” He sighs. “But if Gertrude _ did _know something about his past and Elias killed her for it, I have no idea what it might have been.”

“I mean… if you investigated us, surely you did some digging into Elias as well,” Martin says. “Did you find anything there?”

Jon shakes his head. “Again, not much, but what I_ did _ find out about him before he came to work for the Institute seems… an ill fit with the Elias I know.” He wrinkles his nose. “Apparently, he graduated with a third from Christchurch College in PPE — and on top of that, if a student newspaper gossip column is to be believed, he was a bit of a pothead.”

“Well, he evidently stopped smoking when he was hired at the Institute,” Tim remarks jokingly. “Elias is the least relaxed person I’ve ever met in my life. I mean, have you _ seen _his planner?”

“What about before he became head of the Institute?” Sasha asks. “What department was Elias working in?”

“Artifact Storage, so he wouldn’t have necessarily worked directly alongside Gertrude,” Jon says. “I brought it up with Sonja, but again: Elias was a bit before her time.” He finally reaches for his beer and takes a drink, but makes a disgusted face and puts it down again. “In any case, he’d only been at the Institute for five years before he became its head. A remarkably fast rise to the top.”

“A suspicious one, you mean,” Tim puts in. “James Wright was head of the Institute before Elias, right? Didn’t he die kind of suddenly?_ And _ in his office?”

“Yes, but the man _ was _ fairly elderly, and there were no signs it was anything other than an aneurysm,” Jon says. “Trust me, Tim, I _ did _entertain that possibility, but I’m fairly certain that whatever Elias was covering up — if he killed Gertrude, and for that reason — it wasn’t murdering James Wright.”

A hush falls over the booth for a moment. The sounds of the bustling pub remain strangely distant, and the people talking and laughing and drinking around them don’t seem quite real: like everything but them is just in the background, setting the scene for whatever strange story they’ve found themselves in.

Sasha takes a deep breath, breaking the silence. “What about Jane?”

Jon frowns. “What about her?”

“Do you think she knows something?” Sasha asks tentatively. “Gertrude’s body _ was _ found down in the tunnels, and, well… Jane was down there for God knows _ how _long, so…” She shrugs slightly. “I mean, she definitely didn’t kill Gertrude, but… maybe she knows who might have?”

Jon’s frown deepens. “I… have also considered that possibility,” he says grudgingly. “I agree with you that there’s no way Prentiss could have killed Gertrude; even_ if _ the timing matched up, Gertrude was shot three times, not infested with worms. So that solidly rules out Prentiss.” He rubs wearily at his temples. “But I am _ very _reluctant to approach her on this matter.”

“Why?” Sasha presses. “You want to find out who killed Gertrude, right?”

“Of _ course _I do,” Jon says brusquely. “But if I’m right about it being Elias, then, well… I don’t think we can trust Prentiss with this. Sasha, hear me out,” he continues before Sasha can respond. “If Elias killed Gertrude, he’s understandably not going to want anyone to find that out. I don’t think Prentiss would still be alive, let alone working with us, if she knew that Elias had killed Gertrude, so I think the likeliest explanation for why Elias installed Prentiss in the Archives is to keep an eye on us — and to keep us from getting too close to the truth.”

“So… you think Jane’s a _ spy?” _Sasha asks incredulously.

“It’s a possibility we can’t ignore,” Jon says grimly. “And if that’s the case, she certainly isn’t acting as such of her own volition; Elias may have something on her or is twisting her arm somehow to get her to do what he wants. But be that as it may, that doesn’t change the fact that trusting her with this is probably a bad idea.”

“That’s a _ lot _ of hypotheticals, Jon,” Sasha retorts heatedly. “Look: I agree that Jane is very likely being coerced by Elias. But don’t you think that just might make her more resentful of him and — and more likely to help _ us _ if we asked?”

“That’s also a hypothetical,” Jon points out. “And a _ very _risky one if you’re wrong.”

“I don’t know, Jon,” Tim says thoughtfully. “Don’t get me wrong — I may not entirely trust Prentiss, but I don’t have to trust her to know that she _ definitely _doesn’t like Elias. You were there, Martin,” he adds, looking over at Martin. “I mean, she told us, point-blank, that we shouldn’t trust Elias!”

Jon looks from Tim to Martin, waiting for confirmation.

Martin sighs. “She did,” he admits. “I mean, she didn’t give any specific reason why — but also, you then proceeded to burst out of your office, bleeding from your shoulder, so…” He shrugs. “If Prentiss _ was _going to say why, she didn’t have the chance.”

“Martin, I’m surprised that _ you _ of all people are giving Prentiss the benefit of the doubt,” Jon remarks.

“I mean, I didn’t at the time. And I’m still very much in the same boat as Tim; I don’t trust Prentiss either. Or like being around her. But…” Martin chews on his lip, clearly hesitant. “I had a _ really _ odd conversation with her earlier today. I asked her more about — about that whole _ fear _ discussion we were having before, and she refused to say anything more about it. Because…” He swallows. “Well, she said that someone might be _ listening.” _

“Someone like Elias?” Jon asks.

“Could be?” Martin offers. “I mean, it didn’t occur to me at the time, but… it sure _ seems _ like a possibility now.”

“Hmm.” Jon’s frown is decidedly pensive now, and more than a little uncertain.

“Look, I _ know _ that you all have reservations about Jane,” Sasha says firmly. “Believe me, you have all made that _ very _ clear to me on many occasions. But for once, I’m not asking you to trust her. I’m asking you to trust _ me _ and what I’ve seen, and what _ I’ve _ seen is that Jane’s in a lot of pain, and that she’s struggling just as much as we are.” She looks around the table at all of them: Tim, then Martin, and finally Jon. “But one thing we all can clearly see is that she doesn’t like Elias. So I think it’s worth the risk — _ whatever _you think that risk is, Jon — to ask her if she’ll help us.” She swallows. “And at the end of the day, I think you’ll find that what Jane wants and what we want are not that different.”

After a moment, Tim nods thoughtfully. Martin shrugs, his face still troubled.

Jon still looks unconvinced. “And what do_ you _ think Jane wants, Sasha?” he asks.

“To not face any of this alone,” Sasha says quietly. “To have someone in her corner, for once.” _ Someone who cares about her beyond what _ use _ she has to them. _

_ Someone who isn’t afraid of her. _

It takes considerable convincing on Sasha’s part, but by the end of the night and the second round of beers, Jon_ does _ finally agree to talk to Jane, albeit reluctantly, the next time he sees her. But then on Monday, Jane doesn’t show up for work.

Although it’s the first time Jane’s been absent, Sasha is surprised to find that she’s not as worried about it as she thinks she should be. After all, Jane had a rough time last week, too, and on Friday, especially. So Sasha tells herself that Jane could very well be taking an extra day off for her own mental health, and then she gets to work on the latest statement Jon has them investigating. 

But then Jane’s not there on Tuesday either. Or Wednesday. And by Thursday, Sasha’s well and properly worried.

The worst part is, there’s nothing she can do. Though Sasha knows that Jane has to be somewhere in the Institute, she has no idea _where. _Worse still, the only person she can think of who would probably know is Elias, and in light of Jon’s revelation of his investigations at the pub last week, Sasha isn’t about to ask _him._

Jane isn’t in the Archives on Friday either, but, because Sasha’s life is apparently an immense cosmic joke that’s slowly winding up for a horribly unfunny punchline, Elias _ is. _He walks in at five past nine, a manila envelope neatly tucked under his arm, and just stands at the door, examining their cluster of desks with a keen, cool look. 

Martin makes himself as small as possible. Sasha keeps her head down and prays that Elias doesn’t ask where Jane is.

Tim, for some reason, decides to engage. “Need something?” he asks disinterestedly, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.

Elias is unperturbed. “Is Jon in yet?”

Tim wordlessly points at Jon’s office door. Elias simply shrugs, walks to the door, and knocks. Sasha still doesn’t look up, but she watches out of the corner of her eye.

It takes a moment for Jon to open the door, but when he does, his expression is decidedly disdainful. “Elias,” he says flatly. “What brings you down to the basement?”

Unfazed, Elias holds out the manila envelope. “The CCTV footage from the week Gertrude disappeared,” he explains. “The police finally finished cleaning it up and examining it, and I thought you might like to take a look at the copy they gave me.”

Jon frowns. “But there aren’t any cameras in the Archives,” he says. “You told me yourself it’s impossible to set them up down here.”

“True, but there _ are _cameras everywhere else in the Institute,” Elias says evenly. “And across all of the feeds, it provides a remarkably detailed account of everyone’s movements over that week.”

Martin shoots Sasha a panicked look. Sasha knows that he’s thinking about exactly the same thing she is: Jane’s warning that someone might be listening.

If Jon’s going through a similar thought process, he doesn’t show it. “Well,” he says dryly, “it’s nice to know that we all have alibis.”

“I would certainly hope so,” Elias says, smiling slightly. “Feel free to keep that copy for as long as you need to. I imagine you’ll want to take a close look at it yourself.”

“I imagine I will.” Jon takes the manila envelope. “Is that all?”

“Not quite.” Elias turns around to survey the Archives once again. “Is Miss Prentiss available?”

Sasha goes very still. Martin’s gaze becomes a little more panicked. Tim suddenly seems to find the file he’d been previously examining intensely interesting.

It is at that moment that the door to the Archives slowly creaks open. And despite everything, Sasha looks up and over at the door along with everyone else.

Jane hesitantly steps inside, and Sasha can’t help but be shocked at how _ wretched _she looks. The Jane who walked in with Elias all those months ago was long and lean and quietly self-possessed, but this Jane seems small and fragile, drowning in the folds of her overlarge jumper. Her usually wild, curly hair looks limp and lank, like it hasn’t been washed in a few days, and the silver worm scars on her skin stand out starkly against her pale, drawn face. But when her gaze slowly falls on Sasha, her eyes, as dark as they are, seem to have a new spark in them.

Despite everything, relief washes over Sasha. _ She’s here. She’s still here. _

“Speak of the devil.” Hands folded behind his back, Elias takes a step in Jane’s direction. “Miss Prentiss: do you have a moment?”

Jane freezes instantly. Her face is still just as miserable, but judging from how her shoulders seize up and how her fingers clench around the cuffs of her jumper, Sasha knows that Jane is deeply afraid.

She also knows — although she can’t say _ how _ — that she cannot, under any circumstances, let Jane go _ anywhere _ with Elias.

“Actually,” Sasha hears herself saying, trying to make her tone as casual as possible, “Jane’s helping me with some research into a statement right now.” She gives Elias an apologetic smile. “Maybe another time?” 

Elias turns to look at her. His expression is neutral, even pleasant, but Sasha is taken aback at how _ cold _ his eyes are. “Are you quite sure you can’t spare her right now?” he asks.

Unexpectedly, Jon cuts in. “Quite,” he says, and his tone is as frosty as Elias’ gaze. “It’s been a busy week for statements. We have a lot of follow-up to get done, and I need all hands on deck, Jane’s included.”

Elias stares at Jon for a long time, eyes narrowed. Then finally, he nods. “Of course.” Crossing to the door, he pauses near Jane, still frozen in place. “It’s nice to see you fitting in around here, Miss Prentiss,” he says lightly. “Keep it up, and you’ll be on your way to a permanent position with the Institute.”

Jane visibly flinches. Elias just gives her a polite smile and then continues on his way out.

As soon as the door to the Archives closes behind Elias, Jon turns his attention to Jane. Though his gaze had been hard when he was staring down Elias, his expression is a little softer now, almost worried. It is then that Sasha realizes that Jon had actually called Jane by her name for once.

“I don’t think Elias will be coming back today,” Jon finally says, a touch grimly. “And hopefully, he won’t come back anytime soon.”

Jane just nods, looking smaller and more scared than ever before. Then she crosses the floor and all but flings herself at Sasha, wrapping her arms around her shoulders and burying her face in the crook of her neck. 

Though surprised, Sasha hugs her without any hesitation. Jane’s entire body is shaking with barely-concealed terror, but as one of Sasha’s hands rubs circles into her back, Jane slowly stills in Sasha’s arms.

“Thank you,” Jane finally manages. Her voice is small and ragged, muffled by the scarf Sasha’s wearing. “Thank you, thank you, _ thank you —” _Her breath hitches and Sasha can feel hot tears seeping into the wool of the scarf.

Sasha just squeezes her a little tighter. “You’re okay, Jane,” she whispers fiercely. “You’ll be okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**CW:** Bereavement, depression._


	7. The Descent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regarding the exhaustion of Jonathan Sims’ other options, and his further exploration of the tunnels below the Institute with Jane Prentiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is! Later than expected, [but still earlier than I'd planned](https://numinousnic.tumblr.com/post/189687231262/quick-announcement-everyone-due-to-a-number-of), so... huzzah?
> 
> _ **Content warnings for this chapter are in the end notes.** _

Jon waits for the four of them to squeeze into his cluttered, cramped office — and for Martin to shut the door — before he speaks. “It would seem,” he says, his tone decidedly funereal, “that we’ve hit another dead end.”

Tim snags the single open chair in front of Jon’s desk and sprawls out in it. “Let me guess: there was absolutely _ nothing _useful on that CCTV footage.”

“Unfortunately.” Jon casts a baleful glance at the videotape, resting on top of its manila envelope at the corner of his desk. “I’ve been pouring over the footage all this morning, and as far as I could tell, no one entered or exited the Archives that week except for Gertrude. At least,” he amends grimly, “not before Elias went down and, presumably, discovered a bloody mess in lieu of Gertrude.”

Martin paces closer to Jon’s desk. “I mean,” he tentatively offers, “Elias still could have done it, couldn’t he? If Gertrude went into the Archives and never came out, and then Elias went in…” He shrugs. “Who’s to say that Gertrude was _ actually _gone by the time Elias got down there?”

“Martin, are you _ sure _ you want to stick to writing poetry?” Tim remarks with a grin. “You might have real promise as a murder mystery novelist.”

Before Martin can respond, Jane speaks up. “Who’s Gertrude?”

Sasha glances over at her. Though Jane seems to have finally recovered after Elias’ unwelcome appearance, she looks no better than she had when she first arrived this morning. She hasn’t said much since then, either, and she hasn’t left Sasha’s side all day; even now, as they stand together behind where Tim is sitting, Jane is close enough to Sasha for their shoulders to touch.

Jane’s fingers brush against Sasha’s. Almost instinctively, Sasha winds her hand around Jane’s.

Jon looks up at Jane; Sasha also notes that he seems to more readily acknowledge Jane’s presence now. “My predecessor,” he supplies. “As Archivist.”

Recognition flickers in Jane’s eyes. “The old woman?” When Jon nods, her forehead creases with a slight frown. “What happened to her?”

“She was murdered,” Jon says quietly. “We don’t know who did it, but our best guess is —”

_ “Elias.” _ The venom in Jane’s voice is unmistakable.

For a moment, Jon looks taken aback by her vehemence, but then he nods again. “Exactly,” he says. _ “Except, _we have no evidence to confirm that.”

“Or deny it,” Tim puts in. “I mean, all joking aside, Martin raises a good point. If Elias was the only person around when Gertrude’s blood was discovered, then, well —”

“Yes, Tim, I agree that Elias’ statement on the matter is deeply suspect; _ however, _the visual evidence is inconclusive at best.” Jon props up his elbows on his desk and rubs tiredly at his temples. “And if Elias is also lying about there not being any cameras in the Archives, he’s hardly going to hand us the footage from those.”

“What about Gertrude herself?” Sasha asks. “What was she doing during that week? Could you see if she crossed paths with Elias at all?”

Jon shakes his head. “She didn’t interact with _ anyone, _ least of all Elias,” he says. “Frankly, Gertrude’s movements that week were somewhat erratic. She was in and out of the Archives at all hours of the day and night, at some points looking rather —” He pauses, frowning. “I don’t know how to describe it,” he says after a moment. “I don’t know if I was projecting my expectations of what I’d see in that footage onto her or not, but she seemed… resolved. Grimly so.”

“I mean,” Tim says, “based on the gossip I heard about her during my Research days, ‘grimly resolved’ seemed to be Gertrude’s default setting.” 

“Hence, my suspicions of projection,” Jon says. “And until her laptop turns up — _ if _ it turns up — we’ll have no way of knowing what Gertrude was ‘grimly resolved’ about: if _ anything.” _

“So what do we do in the meantime?” Martin asks.

Jon sighs heavily. “The CCTV footage lacking any sort of visual evidence lends some credence to a suspicion I’ve held for a while: that Gertrude’s killer used the tunnels to gain access to the Archives. And,” he adds, his expression bleakly unenthusiastic, “that the killer could still be down there.”

Tim blinks, surprised. “Alright, that first thing you said makes sense,” he says slowly. “But I’m going to need you to explain that second thing a little bit more.”

Jon shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “I… may have done a little reconnaissance,” he mumbles. “In the tunnels.”

_ “Jon!” _ Martin sputters. “What — why — when was _ this?” _

“The week after we got back from our leave after… well, you know,” Jon finishes awkwardly, his gaze darting to Jane. “And then again the week after that. But that’s been all; I… only had the nerve to go down there twice.”

Martin still seems a bit chagrined, but he looks more worried now. “... Why was that?”

“Um…” Jon fidgets. “You know, I recorded a statement about my explorations,” he says, with the sudden briskness of someone desperately trying to change the subject. “The tape’s stashed away in my office somewhere; I can find it so you can listen to it at some point —”

“Yes, that would be _ great, _ Jon,” Martin says impatiently, “but what’s the _ short _version?”

Jon swallows. “The second time I went down there, I went too deep,” he says simply. “And I heard a voice. It told me to leave, so I did.”

Martin sighs, but it comes out as more of a long-suffering groan. 

“Well,” Tim comments after a moment. “Good choice.”

“I thought so too,” Jon says dryly, but his expression is clearly troubled. 

Sasha has her own suspicions about what _ that _ expression means. “Jon,” she asks, “you’re not seriously considering going back down there, are you?”

“Trust me, Sasha — I don’t want to consider it either,” Jon says. “But like it or not, the tunnels are our only lead at the moment, and it’s a lead that we haven’t really explored.”

“And for good reason!” Martin protests. “Jon, if that voice _ did _ belong to Gertrude’s killer — or God forbid, something _ worse _— and they’re still down there —”

“I _ know, _ Martin,” Jon says wearily. “It could get dangerous — or _ more _dangerous, as the case may be. But if I can’t find any answers about Gertrude up here, I might as well take another look down there.”

“No, no, _ no. _ None of this ‘I’ business,” Martin says sternly. “If you think you’re going back down there, and _ alone _—”

“Well, if we _ all _ run off to the tunnels, Elias will get suspicious for sure,” Jon retorts. “And I don’t want — _ well,” _ he amends with a huff, “you all are _ already _ involved. But the fact remains that Gertrude was _ my _ predecessor, so the person who her murder immediately concerns is still _ me. _ So if I can keep all of you out of harm’s way for as long as possible —”

“I could go with you.”

Sasha glances over. Jane has stepped away from her side and a little closer to Jon’s desk, and her gaze is alight with a desperate interest.

Jon frowns, surprised. “Pardon?”

“I. Could. Go with you,” Jane repeats. She sounds eager, but there’s a plaintive note to her voice. “I know _ something _ of the tunnels: about as much as they _ can _be known. I could help.”

Tim and Martin share an uncertain look.

“That’s… an idea,” Jon says after a moment. “One that I will keep in mind if I _ do _decide to revisit the tunnels.”

Jane’s face falls, but she stays silent and just nods.

“... So. No footage, no laptop, and, for the moment, no tunnels,” Tim remarks. “What does that leave us with? _ Does _that leave us with anything?”

“I don’t think it does, Tim.” Jon slumps back in his seat. “The tunnels might still be an option, but… I’ll_ really _have to think about whether I want to go back. In the meantime, I suppose I’ll just keep looking for that laptop.”

“We could help with that,” Martin offers. “Do you think it might be somewhere in the Archives?”

“I_ hope _ it is,” Jon says with a snort. “If it was down in the tunnels with Gertrude and the police have taken it as evidence, then there’s no way we’re getting it back.”

“Have you asked Basira if the police found a laptop?” Sasha asks.

Jon blinks; evidently, he hasn’t thought of that. “... I can,” he says. “I haven’t heard from her in a bit, but I’ll ask the next time she drops by.” He frowns. “Granted, if the police _ do _have Gertrude’s laptop, that might be a bit tricky for Basira to smuggle out, but I suppose we’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.”

Tim’s eyebrows shoot up. “Don’t you mean _ cross _that bridge?”

“Yes, that too,” Jon says absently. “In any case, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt if you all keep your eyes peeled in the meantime.” 

“Can do.” Martin makes to leave, but then stops mid-turn. “Does anyone want any tea?” he asks. “Jon, what about you? You… kind of look like you need some.”

Jon exhales. “Yes, I… I think tea would be good.”

“Seconded,” Tim adds.

“I could go for a cup, too,” Sasha chimes in. 

“All right.” Martin heads for the door, but then stops again as he opens it. “Do — do _ you _want tea?” he asks tentatively, looking over at Jane.

Though Jane looks a bit caught off guard, she shrugs.

“... Five teas, then,” Martin says after a moment. “I suppose I’d better get the kettle going.” With that, he heads out of Jon’s office.

Tim stands and stretches. “I guess we’ll leave you to… whatever it is you’re going to do,” he says wryly, and then follows Martin out. 

The corners of Jon’s mouth twitch up briefly, but then his gaze falls to the stacks of files and paperwork on his desk and he sobers. Sasha takes that as her cue to leave; when she turns to go, she sees that Jane has already slipped out and is meandering in the direction of the shelves.

Closing the door to Jon’s office behind her as she goes, Sasha catches up to Jane just as she slips between the first of the ranges. “Jane?” 

Jane slowly turns around. Now that she’s left Jon’s office, her mostly impassive demeanor has given way to something more despairing.

Sasha briefly checks behind her to make sure Tim’s back at his desk and busy, then lowers her voice. “Your offer to Jon,” she says. “Are you — are you trying to see if — if you can hear that song again? In the tunnels?”

Crossing her arms over her chest, Jane averts her gaze.

Sasha takes that as a yes. “Are you sure about that?” she asks softly.

Jane lets out a long sigh. “I... need to try,” she says. “I need to know, Sasha. I need to know if —” She stops, unable or unwilling to finish.

_ If there’s something left of the Hive down there. _Sasha swallows. “What are you going to do?” she asks. “If you find… what you’re looking for.”

Jane looks back up, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I don’t _ know,” _she says. “I don’t know what I’ll do.”

It is then that Sasha realizes what Jane is actually saying. “You don’t think there’s anything left.”

Jane nods, and a few tears start coursing down her scarred cheeks at the motion. “I just need to _ know,” _ she says. “I need to know for sure if — if it’s not coming back. I _ can’t —” _

Sasha takes a step towards her and puts a comforting hand on Jane’s shoulder. Jane tenses, but only for a moment, then her shoulders slump and her arms fall to her side.

Sasha lifts her hand from Jane’s shoulder and takes one of her hands instead, clasping it between both of her own. “What can’t you do?” she asks gently.

Jane inhales shakily. “I didn’t want to come back here,” she says, her voice so low and hoarse Sasha can barely make it out. “The thought of all that _ silence — _ how _ hollow _ this place would feel with no song — I couldn’t go back to that.” Her mouth twists and trembles, then tightens. “However lonely my _ cell _was, I thought — I thought it would be better than here.”

“That’s where you were?” Sasha asks. “This whole week?”

“Where else would I have been?” Jane says flatly. “I can’t move freely in this place; _ Elias _has seen to that.”

Sasha sighs. “I — I was just worried about you,” she confesses. “I didn’t know where you were or where to find you and —” She pauses, gripping Jane’s hand a little tighter. “I just wanted to know you were okay.”

Jane stares at Sasha for a long time, her expression unreadable. Then: “Because I’m your friend?”

_ “Yes,” _ Sasha says emphatically. “Because _ we’re _friends. Because I care about you and — and because I don’t want you to deal with this alone.”

For a moment, Jane looks like she’s going to start crying again, but then she wipes away her tears with her free hand and gives Sasha a smile: a small, hesitant one, but a smile nonetheless. “Because that’s what friends do?”

“Because that’s what friends do,” Sasha repeats, returning the smile.

Jane’s face softens. Even though her eyes are still red and her face is still blotchy, her smile seems to grow a little wider. “Well,” she says finally. “I think I was right to come back.”

“And why’s that?” Sasha asks.

Jane places her free hand over Sasha’s clasped hands, her fingers brushing gently across Sasha’s skin. “The song might not be here anymore,” she says. “But... you still are.”

Unexpectedly, Sasha feels her heart skip a beat.

In a sudden turn from all the recent chaos and drama, the next few weeks see the Archives unusually, eerily quiet — save for two unexpected visitors.

The first is an unfamiliar police officer. As Sasha later learns when Jon calls them all into his office for another dismal debriefing after her visit, that officer was one Detective Tonner — Basira’s partner and the actual lead on the investigation into Gertrude’s murder — and she’d stopped by primarily to inform Jon that he was no longer their primary suspect. Though the blow was partly softened by the fact that Detective Tonner brought another of Gertrude’s tapes with her, Sasha could clearly tell Jon was still disgruntled, even hurt: more by the deception than the accusation of murder.

Fortunately, the second visitor — the one idly spinning around in Sasha’s desk chair when she arrives back from her break early one day — is a bit more welcome.

Sasha stops dead in her tracks as the door to the Archives swings shut behind her. “Melanie?”

At the sound of her name, Melanie stops the chair mid-spin. “Sasha!” She scrambles to her feet, grabbing her leather jacket from where it had been draped over one of the armrests. “Thank God you’re still here.”

“Just out grabbing lunch.” Sasha lifts her hand to display the two paper bags from Pret. “Where else did you think I would be?”

“To be honest?” Melanie says with a shrug. “In the time between the new girl letting me into the Archives and me seeing that there were four desks now instead of three, I was _ really _worried that you weren’t working here anymore.”

Sasha laughs. “Well, I’m still very much here,” she says, walking over and putting the bags down: one on her desk, the other on Jane’s. “Jane’s just been added to the team.”

“Gotcha,” Melanie says slowly, surveying the Archives. “Don’t know where she went, but in case I don’t see her again, can you thank her for me?” she asks. “The Archives door was locked when I got down here and I thought I was shit out of luck, but then she turned up out of nowhere and let me in.”

“I’ll let her know,” Sasha says. She shrugs off her coat and tosses it onto her desk chair, then turns back to Melanie. “So, what brings you back to the Magnus Institute? It’s not just me, is it?” she adds jokingly.

“I wish.” Melanie sighs irritably. “Unfortunately, I’m actually here to see... oh, what’s his name?” Her nose wrinkles. “You know. Your pompous ass of a boss?”

“That would be Jon,” Sasha replies. “And I _ think _ he should be around; he doesn’t usually go out for lunch with me and Martin and Tim.”

“Perfect,” Melanie says dryly. “You wouldn’t mind sticking around and serving as a buffer, would you? This is kind of important, so I _ really _ don’t want this conversation devolving into another shouting match.”

Sasha gives her a smile. “I don’t mind at all.” She crosses to Jon’s office door — closed, as usual — and knocks. “Jon?”

Though muffled, Jon’s response is surprisingly prompt. “Come in, Sasha.”

Sasha opens the door, then glances back over her shoulder and gestures at Melanie to follow her. Melanie does so, albeit reluctantly, and shuts the office door behind her once they’re both inside.

Jon is seated at his desk, hands folded under his chin as he scowls at a laptop open in front of him. His frustration seems to fade for a moment when he looks up and sees Sasha, but then his gaze lands on Melanie and it hardens again. “Miss King.”

“Nice to see I’m remembered,” Melanie says dryly.

Jon looks back at Sasha, almost accusing. “What is she doing here?”

“‘She’ can speak for herself,” Melanie retorts. “And believe it or not, I’m actually here to see _ you, _Jon.”

Jon raises his eyebrows._ “Well,” _ he says. “This is an… interesting development.”

“Look, can you not be a complete prick about it?” Melanie snaps. “I just need access to the Institute’s library.”

“Talk to Diana, then,” Jon says dismissively, leaning back in his seat.

“Already did.” Melanie snorts. “Apparently, I don’t have the _ academic credentials _ you guys demand, so I need an Institute employee to vouch for me. And, well —” She shrugs. “No offense, Sasha, but I just figured your boss would have a bit more clout in that respect.”

“None taken,” Sasha says.

Jon still looks unconvinced.

“And for what it’s worth,” Melanie adds, rolling her eyes, “when I asked for her input, Georgie seemed to have _ some _faith that you’d help me out.”

The name sounds somewhat familiar, but Sasha can’t say where from; in any case, it seems to get Jon’s attention. “Right,” he says, his expression a little less stony. “I... forgot you and Georgie run in the same circles.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t even know that you and Georgie knew each other,” Melanie says. “How _ do _you even know each other?”

“I — we — it was a long time ago,” Jon says awkwardly. “Before she started doing _ What the Ghost.” _

“Wait a second,” Sasha interjects, the pieces of the puzzle clicking together. _“You _know Georgie Barker? _What the Ghost’_s Georgie Barker?”

Jon throws up his hands. “Why is everyone so surprised that I know Georgie?”

“I don’t know,” Melanie says sarcastically. “Maybe it’s the fact that she hosts a podcast about the paranormal and you’re the snottiest skeptic I’ve ever met?”

“Point taken,” Jon concedes, although he looks annoyed about having to admit it. “Anyway, I — look, I’m frankly surprised that Georgie thinks that highly of me, but why do you need _ me? _Can’t your fellow show-biz friends help you?”

“Uh, not really,” Melanie says hastily. “Look, can you help me or not? I’ve got some leads I need to follow up on and, well —” She swallows, her jaw tightening. “Let’s just say I don’t think they’re exactly _ Ghost Hunt UK _territory.”

Jon’s frown returns. His gaze drifts to the laptop on his desk, almost thoughtful. “... So,” he says after a moment. “You think they’re Institute territory.”

For the first time since she walked into the office, Sasha takes a closer look at the laptop. It’s definitely not Jon’s; his laptop is closed and on the corner of his desk, and though it’s a little old, it’s clearly been well taken care of. _ This _laptop, on the other hand, is ancient: built like a brick and meant to withstand a few beatings, and it clearly has. A thin sheen of dust clings to the metal, and though Jon hasn’t touched it since she and Melanie came in, the fan is still whirring far too loudly.

“Jon?” Sasha asks suddenly. “Is that —?”

“Is what —?” Jon looks up at her, then back to the laptop, then back to her. “Oh. Gertrude’s laptop. Yes,” he says. “That tape I got from Daisy was… unexpectedly helpful in finding it.”

“Where was it?” Sasha asks. “Also, _ when _ were you going to tell us about this?”

“Under the floorboards,” Jon says tightly. “And I _ was _going to tell you all about it today, but when I stuck my head out, it seemed that everyone was at lunch.”

“Question,” Melanie interrupts. “Who the hell is Gertrude?”

“That’s not important,” Jon says.

“Sure,” Melanie says dryly. _ “So _ unimportant, you’re trying to get into her laptop. That _ is _what you’re trying to do, right?” she adds.

Jon’s scowl deepens. “Yes,” he admits. “But it’s password-protected, and since Gertrude clearly wasn’t the type to write things down...” He glances back at Sasha, almost hopeful. “You’re good with computers. Could you —?”

“Jon, I’m not _that _kind of hacker,” Sasha says. “I’m just good at sifting through data, and other people are really bad at securing said data. Hardware is...” She shakes her head. “Not my thing.”

Jon deflates. “Damn.”

“I could give it a go,” Melanie offers. “I mean, I wouldn’t call myself a hacker either,” she says defensively as Jon stares at her doubtfully, “but I think I know enough to help you out with this particular problem.”

Jon shoots a glance at Sasha. Sasha just gives him a pointed look.

“Look, I don’t really care about whatever you’re up to or why this Gertrude person is important,” Melanie says. “Just… how about this? If I get you into this laptop, you get me into the Institute’s library.” She extends her hand. “Deal?”

Jon considers it, and then he reaches out and shakes Melanie’s hand. “Deal,” he says. “And if you don’t? Will you still want library access?”

“Uh, _ yeah.” _ Melanie grabs the laptop off of Jon’s desk, plops down in the open chair, and starts typing. “But you only _ have _to help me if I end up helping you out. If I don’t… I guess it’s up to you whether or not you help me.”

Jon shrugs. “Seems fair,” he says. “Now... what, exactly, are you planning on researching?”

“I’ll let you know once I get around to actually doing the research,” Melanie says without looking up from the screen. “Or _ if _I get around to doing it.”

Jon sighs. “Look, Melanie... deal or no deal, I’ll still help you get access to the library. Diana’s prickly to everyone, Institute-affiliated or not, but even she can be placated once we fill out the proper forms.” He props up his forearms on the desk, his fingers drumming restlessly. “I just — I appreciate whatever help you can lend.”

“Was that... genuine gratitude?” Melanie asks in mock surprise. “Wonders never cease.”

“Please don’t make me regret it,” Jon says sourly. 

“Oh, you won’t.” Melanie hits one last key, then turns around the laptop with a flourish; from what Sasha can see of the screen, it displays a plain desktop background dotted with a few icons. “Ta-da.”

Jon gapes at the screen. “How did you —?”

“I mean, I _ could _ explain what a command line is, but do you really want to hear that?” Melanie says blithely, holding out the laptop. “In any case, you’re welcome. Also, you should probably change the password to something you can remember so you don’t get locked out in the future.”

“Yes. Yes, thank you.” Jon takes the laptop from her, still seemingly dazed with astonishment. “At the very least, you’ve saved me the trouble of discreetly finding someone else to unlock it.” He looks over at Sasha. “Sasha, if you’re not busy with anything… would you mind taking a look through this?”

“Not at all.” Sasha takes the laptop from Jon; true to its appearance, it’s a little heavy and fairly awkward to handle. “I’ll change the password, too, while I’m at it.”

“Good.” Jon stands up and grabs his suit jacket off the back of his chair, back to business. “I’ll help you later, but right now, I believe I have to escort Melanie back to the library.”

“I’m sure Diana will be thrilled to see you both,” Sasha says with a laugh.

“Oh, I’m quite sure.” Jon pulls on his suit jacket and straightens out the sleeves, then addresses Melanie. “Ready for round two?”

_ “Definitely.” _Melanie stands up, a sly smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You know, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you’re actually not a complete prick.”

“Is that so?” Jon remarks.

“Yeah,” Melanie continues, openly grinning now. “You’re only _ mostly _a prick.”

“Now, _ that _ sounds more like it,” Jon says dryly. He crosses to his office door and opens it. “So much for Georgie’s faith in me.”

“Hey, that’s just _ my _ opinion: not Georgie’s,” Melanie retorts, elbowing him in the side as she squeezes past him and through the door. “But exactly _ how _long has it been since you two talked, anyway?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” Jon says snippily, following her out. 

“Oh, it’s really not,” Melanie says brightly. “But both you and Georgie — well, mostly you — have been kind of cagey about your connection, so that just makes me curious.” She grabs the door handle, but before she closes the door, she flashes Sasha a smile and a mock-salute. “Hope you find what you’re looking for. Whatever it is.”

“Yeah, me too.” Sasha smiles back, but she finds that it fades as soon as the door to Jon’s office closes. _ Whatever it is. _

Sitting down in Melanie’s vacated chair, Sasha balances Gertrude’s laptop on the edge of Jon’s desk and opens up the laptop’s settings to change the password.

It takes another week or so of Sasha and the Archivist combing through Gertrude’s laptop with little success, followed by yet another discouraging debriefing, for the Archivist to break the news that he’s decided to venture back into the tunnels — and that he’s decided that she’s going to come with him after all.

Jane can’t quite say how she feels about this turn of events at first. Surprised: not exactly. Displeased: not entirely. But not _ pleased, _either.

Strangely enough, the word that she keeps coming back to is _ afraid. _

Since coming back to the Archives, she’d grown accustomed to the silence, to the lack of song. It’s still an absence that she feels keenly some days, but she’s found that it’s been much easier to forget about something that’s gone rather than something that’s barely there. 

So, Jane had kept her distance from the trapdoor and found other things to do in the time that it took Sasha and Tim and Martin to get lunch and bring it back for her. She’d reorganized the boxes of tea and slightly stale biscuits in the kitchenette cabinets, several times. She’d taken naps on the break room couch — or, on the rare occasion that the Archivist left for lunch, or the less rare occasion when she invaded his space because she felt like it, on the couch in his office. She’d even done some preliminary research for the few statements that the Archivist passed on to them for investigation. 

She’d started listening to other music, too, to drown out the silence. The holidays had passed without much fanfare in the Archives, but a few days before what Jane later realized was Christmas, Sasha had surprised her with an iPod. It was a years-old model that, even in a refurbished state, had clearly been well-used by previous owners, but Jane didn’t care — it was Sasha’s gift to her, and it was _ hers _now. So, a few days later, when the Institute’s halls were devoid of life for the Christmas holiday, Jane had gone down to the empty Archives, made herself a cup of tea (not as good as Martin’s, but passable), and listened to music on the Archivist’s couch until the iPod’s battery died and she was forced to hunt for a charger.

Jane had also found that the silence left space for things — this newfound music among them — that she’d had no room for before, back when she could still hear the song and hope for her return to the Hive. Space for Tim’s jokes: some still directed at her, but less pointed than before. Space for Martin’s tea, of which there was a seemingly never-ending stream of. Space for the comfortably quiet hours spent in the Archivist’s office, as they existed in their own separate, yet side-by-side spheres. And even more space for Sasha — not just her music, but her laughter, her smiles, her _ everything. _

Unlike her uncertain, ever-changing feelings on returning to the tunnels, Jane knows with a bit more certainty how she feels about Sasha, how she _ still _ feels about Sasha. While those feelings haven’t changed much from her first day in the Archives, they have evolved into something new, both known and unknown. There _ are _ times when it almost feels familiar: like ascending into the dark heat of the attic, like blistered hands outstretched towards the wasp’s nest. But when Sasha takes her hands, _ her _ hands are cool and smooth and always so gentle, and Jane realizes that it’s something _ different. _

Something that might be better than what she’d had before.

And _ that, _ Jane comes to realize, is why she is _ afraid _ of descending into the tunnels once again. She is no longer afraid of the silence; she now knows what to do when faced with it, and she has learned to live without it. And as strange as it sounds, she is almost beginning to _ like _ her life without it.

But if the silence _ is _ broken, she doesn’t know if she has the will to pick up the pieces.

The first time that she and the Archivist venture into the tunnels after hours, Jane is both surprised and suddenly relieved at how _ silent _ they are. 

It isn’t like the silence in the Archives: mostly quiet, save for the clicking of keyboards and the rustling of papers and the muffled murmuring behind the Archivist’s closed office door. The silence of the tunnels is total, the absence of sound hanging in the air just as heavily as the sturdy walls of stone and brick surrounding them. Even as the two of them traipse the upper level, tracing their way in and out of dead-end passages and door-lined corridors with only their torches to provide light, Jane notices that their footsteps barely echo in the still — and that what sounds that _ do _escape are quickly swallowed up by the darkness.

Despite the uncanny silence and the unending dark, Jane can’t help but feel _ comfortable _ down in the tunnels: more like her old self, more like something best kept out of sight. Up above them, in the Institute, her every move is observed, catalogued, controlled. But down here, when she is immersed in this dry, dead air that flows over her worm-scarred skin like warm rain, there are no eyes to watch her.

Understandably, the Archivist is the opposite. He doesn’t say as much to her — they never have much of what could be called _ conversation _ to begin with, but they don’t say more than two words to each other the entire time they’re in the tunnels — but Jane can tell from the tension in his shoulders and the grim set of his jaw that he doesn’t feel safe down here: _ especially _ not being able to see where they were going. 

As such, that first trip is a short one. When they emerge into the Archives, the Archivist breathes an audible sigh of relief, even as Jane feels her skin begin to prickle again under the fluorescent lights.

The second time that she and the Archivist go into the tunnels, armed with extra torches and a small box of white chalk, they go deeper into the silent dark. 

Because of the Archivist, they also make more stops on their way to and down the stairs. Most often, he pauses to take a piece of chalk from the box and scrawl something on the wall: usually an arrow pointing back the way they came, but also crosses to mark out passages that lead nowhere or are rendered impassable by pipes and drainage systems. But sometimes when he pauses, his face looks strangely drawn and drained of color, and Jane just waits and gives him a moment to breathe and steady himself before they continue on.

But then, not far into the lower level of the tunnels, they both stop at the same doorway, and both their torches pass over over the bent hinges and the fragmented remains of a door. When Jane redirects the beam of her torch inside the room, it looks empty, but the Archivist enters anyway, so she follows him inside. 

As it turns out, the room is not quite empty after all. There are three wooden chairs, two standing on spindly, uneven legs and one three-legged chair tipped over on its side. Wood splinters and other larger fragments are scattered all around, and in one corner of the room, there are several small piles of grey, clumped ash at the center of a vast, blackened scorch mark that extends up the wall and snakes out over the floor.

The Archivist crouches down and sifts through the ashes with his free hand; though they are long dead, he barely touches them, only brushing them aside with his fingertips. As Jane watches from the doorway, he pulls something small and thin and pale from the ashes and holds it up to his torch to examine it more closely.

“What is it?” she asks, approaching him.

The Archivist straightens up and hands her his find, and Jane realizes it’s a scrap of singed paper. She can make out a single sentence printed in an imitation Gothic typeface that reads: _ They have for adversaries the Satariel, or concealers, the Demons of absurdity, of intellectual inertia, and of Mystery. _

“So Gertrude was burning books down here?” Jane comments. “Unusual for an Archivist.”

“Not just any book.” The Archivist takes the scrap of paper back from her and tucks it into his shirt pocket. “I’m guessing that this is all that’s left of at least one of the Leitners she bought: that 1863 edition of the_ Key of Solomon, _by the looks of it.”

Jane frowns. “What’s a ‘Leitner’?”

The Archivist looks at her oddly for a moment, but then seems to realize that she genuinely doesn’t know what he’s talking about. “It’s an informal designation,” he says. “For books with… _ unusual, _ and usually dangerous, properties.” He scowls. “Quite a few of them — too many, in my opinion — were owned by a reclusive book collector named Jurgen Leitner: at least before the destruction of his library and his subsequent disappearance. Hence, the name.”

“Never heard of them,” Jane says. “You know a lot about them?”

The Archivist swallows, a strange look passing over his face. “Not enough and far too much,” he finally says. “I… don’t know anything about this particular one, though, beyond what information there was in the eBay listing. And I don’t know why Gertrude would buy it just to destroy it — and why she would destroy it down_ here.” _

“Do you think she did the same to the other two Leitners?” Jane asks.

“It’s certainly possible. Judging by the condition this room is in —” the Archivist casts the beam of his torch around for emphasis “— to say nothing of Gertrude’s online shopping history, I’m guessing it’s not the first time it’s been used for this purpose.” He sighs heavily. “Still, I won’t be satisfied until we find more evidence besides ashes that _ The Seven Lamps of Architecture _ and _ A Disappearance _have been destroyed as well.”

“Then we keep looking,” Jane says matter-of-factly.

The Archivist lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Yes,” he says. “Unfortunately.”

It is on their third descent into the tunnels that Jane hears something.

They’re delving deeper into the lower levels than before, but they’re also stopping more often; since their discovery last time, the Archivist now insists on checking every room they pass. For _ Leitners, _ Jane supposes, although she privately thinks it to be a pointless search; from what little the Archivist has told her of Gertrude and of these books, Gertrude doubtlessly already destroyed the others. Still, the Archivist persists, so she keeps quiet and lets him look.

Oddly enough, all they’re finding so far is trash: food wrappers, empty bottles, even a soggy newspaper dated to last year. And, judging by where they’ve been finding that trash — stuffed in the gaps of crumbling masonry, hidden under ash and dirt, squirreled away in the dark corners of rooms — someone’s been trying to hide it. Or not trying at all. 

Jane’s not sure which possibility she prefers. But either way, the evidence suggests that someone — or something — is living down in the tunnels. And judging by the frown on the Archivist’s face that deepens with every new piece of trash they find, he’s coming to the same conclusion.

They’ve stopped again so that the Archivist can examine what appears to be a crumbled, tattered magazine page, and _ that _ is when Jane hears something. At first, she thinks it’s just in her mind, her ears readjusting to the depth and pressure and peculiar silence of the tunnels. But the longer she listens, the harder she tries to grasp what she is hearing, the more the faint vibration flattens into a distinct _ hum. _

And once her skin begins to crawl in a strange, yet deeply familiar way, she suddenly recognizes what she is hearing.

“We should go,” Jane says. Her voice sounds unfamiliar to her: far away and all but drowned out by the thunder of blood rushing through her ears.

The Archivist lets the magazine page fall from his hand. “That… would probably be best,” he says after a moment. “The deeper we go, the more prudent it would be to have some backup —”

_ “Now,” _Jane insists. 

The hum surges then, its tune becoming sharper and clearer. Her panic spikes, and without thinking, Jane whirls around and sprints back through the tunnels.

“Jane!” The Archivist starts after her, but his running footsteps fade quickly behind her. “Jane, wait —!”

Jane barely hears him. The hum rises and swells and drowns out all other sound, all other sensation: the dying echoes of her footsteps, the white chalk arrows on the walls that streak by her in the shaking beam of her torch, her ragged breathing and the pounding of her heart as it climbs into her throat. 

She’s getting close; she knows it. And the hum, growing stronger and louder and more lovely with every stumbling step she takes to try and get out of the tunnels, knows it, too.

So when she sees the warped and branching corridor and the large arrow that points down the left passage — back to the stairs, back to the trapdoor — Jane is helpless to keep her feet from carrying her to the right.

_ “Stop!” _

The prickling of her skin flares painfully, like a thousand needles stabbing in all at once. Her muscles seize up, and her stomach jolts with nausea at the sudden stop. Pitching forward, Jane flails around in a desperate attempt to regain balance, but is spared from falling by a hand grabbing her wrist.

It’s the Archivist. Though he’s panting heavily from the exertion of chasing her, his eyes are strangely bright, shining with an uncanny light.

“Let go of me,” Jane spits, yanking her hand from his grasp.

The Archivist makes no move to stop her, the light in his eyes fading fast. “You shouldn’t go down that way,” he says. “There’s —”

“I _ know,” _ Jane snarls. She can still hear the hum, but there’s a jarringly discordant note in it now that mars its melody. “You didn’t have to compel me to tell me _ that, _Archivist.”

The Archivist stares at her, his former frown fading into confusion. “What?” he manages. “I did — tell you — _ what?” _

Jane stares back at him, aghast. Then she realizes: _ He doesn’t know. _

_All he _ thinks _ he knows… and he _ still _ doesn’t know what he is. _Her jaw twitches. _What he can _do.

“What’s down there?” she finally demands. “Where I would have gone.”

The Archivist swallows. “I — I don’t quite know what it is,” he says. “But… I think you — the _ Hive _— made it.”

Jane sucks in a breath. _ Of course, _ she thinks. _ Of _ course. _ Why didn’t I —? _

The Archivist’s eyes narrow. “Do you know what it is?” 

His question has little weight to it, not like his purposeful, if accidental command, but it wrenches open her jaw all the same. “It —”

Something buzzes in the Archivist’s pocket. The sound vibrates through the dead air of the tunnels, and for the briefest of moments, the hum stops.

Jane exhales heavily, then her mouth snaps shut.

The Archivist’s attention is now on his phone, and his eyes widen as he sees the screen. He abruptly turns around and starts back down the lefthand tunnel, towards the stairs, as he answers his phone. “Basira? Basira, can you hear me?”

After a moment, Jane follows him. Without the hum to speed her along, every step she takes feels hopelessly heavy, like the tunnel floor is not stone, but quicksand, dragging her deeper within it the more she struggles.

“I know the signal’s not great,” the Archivist is saying into his phone; he’s reached the stairs and he’s rapidly ascending. “But it should get —” He pauses, a hand on the trapdoor handle. “I’m sorry, _ what?” _

Jane realizes then that the hum is mounting again: not as quickly or as loudly as before, but just as keenly. Catching up to him, Jane elbows the Archivist aside and pushes the trapdoor open, kicking and crawling her way out as fast as she can.

The Archivist scrambles out after her as best as he can with only one hand; his other hand is clenching his phone in a white-knuckled grip. “Hang _ on,” _ he manages to wheeze into the phone, picking himself up off the floor. “Putting — putting you on speaker.” He stands, jabs at the phone screen, and then strides down the aisle. “Did I hear you right? Did you say _ Maxwell Rayner?” _

Behind them, below them, the hum is slowly becoming a song: sweet as honey from any other hive, calling her so tenderly to come down, come _back._

Jane answers its summons by slamming the trapdoor shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**CW:** Attempted possession by an eldritch entity._
> 
> (Please don't ask me to explain what a command line is, either; there's a reason my worst grade in college was in Intro to Computer Programming.)
> 
> An announcement: since the end of this month is going to be busy for me for a _lot_ of reasons — mainly the holidays, but also the upending of my work schedule due to the holidays, traveling for the holidays, two birthdays, and a trip to the theater — the next chapter will not be posted for a bit. I'm tentatively aiming to have it up by the first full week in January, but since next chapter will kick off the ~climactic end~ of this fic, I _really_ want to make sure it's good. So you might have a bit of a longer wait than usual, but trust me when I say: it'll _so_ be worth it.
> 
> Also, if you were hoping for more holiday cheer in this chapter... might I recommend my silly-writing-exercise-turned-actual-published-oneshot, "[All I Want For Christmas Is Another Divorce](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21736417)"? It is decidedly cracky and not exactly canon (even in _this_ AU), which, in my opinion, makes it the perfect palate cleanser for this (substantially more serious) fic!
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading and leaving kudos/comments, and know that I appreciate every single one of them. <3 Happy holidays, and I'll see you all in the new year/decade!


	8. In the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regarding another close call in Artifact Storage, and confessions exchanged between Jane Prentiss and Sasha James.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I've had a surprisingly good holiday season (and I hope you all did too), I am now BACK! And — plot twist — this chapter is done earlier than, like, 3 PM on Monday!
> 
> _ **Content warnings for this chapter are in the end notes.** _

“It’s Jane, right?”

Pausing partway through pulling an archival storage box down from the shelves, Jane pulls out one earbud and glances down from on top of the stool she’s standing on. The woman who she let into the Archives a month or so ago — _ Melanie, _if Jane is recalling correctly — is standing at the end of the shelf, hands tucked into the pockets of her leather jacket.

“Yes,” Jane answers after a moment. “I’m Jane.” She tugs the box fully off the shelf, bracketing it in the crooks of her elbows, and steps off the stool. “You’re… Melanie?”

“You got me.” Melanie cracks a wry smile, then sobers. “Listen, Jane… you wouldn’t happen to know if Sasha’s still around, would you?” 

Jane’s shoulders instinctively tense up, and she forces herself to relax. “Of course she is,” she says. “She’s helping me with these files.” She jerks her chin downwards at the box in her arms; the other earbud falls out of her ear, but she ignores it.

“Right at this moment?” Melanie asks. “I didn’t see her when I came out of Jon’s office just now.”

Frowning, Jane steps around Melanie and walks out of the shelving ranges towards the cluster of desks. Tim’s and Martin’s desks have already been vacated for the night — the latter left in a state of disarray, the former left almost spotless — but Sasha’s computer is still on, and her coat and scarf are still draped over the back of her chair.

True to Melanie’s word, there is, however, no sign of Sasha herself.

Jane exhales, her teeth catching her lower lip. “I… don’t know where she is,” she says slowly. “Further back in the ranges, maybe? Or the secure file storage room —”

Even as she says it, Jane knows that Sasha is in neither of those places. Sasha would have heard their conversation by now if she was anywhere else in the Archives, and a sidelong glance over at the corner confirms for Jane that the door to the secure file storage room isn’t propped open. 

_ But where else could she be? _

Melanie waves it away. “Eh, don’t worry about it,” she says. “I just wanted to say goodbye before Jon and I head out for the night — and before_ I _ fly to India.” She shrugs. “Can always send a postcard, I guess.”

Jane raises an eyebrow. “The Archivist? Leaving at the end of the day?”

Melanie lets out a short laugh. “Shocking, I know.”

“You know, I can just as easily stay here, Melanie,” the Archivist retorts from somewhere behind his cracked-open office door. “You _ still _ haven’t told me why it’s so imperative that I join you and Georgie for drinks _ tonight.” _

“Actually, I _ did _tell you,” Melanie calls back. “Georgie’s birthday, remember?”

The Archivist emerges from his office, his coat in one hand and a perplexed, suspicious look on his face. “Georgie’s birthday is Friday.”

“Yeah, and it’s also the day I fly out,” Melanie responds. “And since I don’t want to be hungover as hell on a nine-hour flight, we’re going out tonight. _ And _you’re coming,” she adds before the Archivist can object. “I have strict orders from Georgie to drag you away from work by any means necessary.”

The Archivist sighs, but his mouth is twitching into what could be called a smile. “Well. Wouldn’t want to disappoint.” He closes his office door and glances over at the empty desks, then at Jane. “Has everyone else left already?”

“Tim and Martin, yes,” Jane says, putting the box of files down on her own desk. “Sasha’s… around somewhere.”

The Archivist takes notice of the box. “How’s the cross-referencing going?” he asks. “I… I realize that Gertrude’s tapes are not organized in an especially helpful way, but are you two finding anything, at least?”

Jane’s eyes slide to the box full of tapes resting on the corner of Sasha’s desk: made of slightly battered, but clean cardboard, with a label reading _ EVIDENCE _ on the discarded lid. The policewoman — _ Basira, _ if she remembers the name the Archivist said on the phone right — brought in the box shortly after making her statement, after her call to the Archivist that ended their last visit to the tunnels. Jane doesn’t know the details of _ why _ Basira removed all of Gertrude’s tapes from police custody in one fell swoop and returned them to the Archives for good, but the Archivist had seemed relieved to have them back, even if he didn’t quite know where to begin listening. So, he’d asked her (and then Jane had asked Sasha) to find corroborating case files for the tapes: to figure out some kind of priority for this haphazardly labeled, usually undated mess.

It’s tedious work, but at least it’s kept her busy. Busy enough to ignore the low hum vibrating through the floor, along the shelves, up her spine: subtle, but pervasive and persistent. And when she turns up the music in her earbuds loud enough, Jane can almost pretend it isn’t there at all.

Almost.

“Not yet,” Jane finally answers, her fingers toying with one of her fallen earbuds. The buzzing in her ears is back, and her skin is prickling a little more sharply than before, but she soldiers on. “But we’ll keep looking.”

The Archivist doesn’t look encouraged, but he nods anyway. “Right,” he says, addressing Melanie. “... Lead the way, I suppose.”

Melanie snorts and turns towards the door to the Archives. “I know you don’t do ‘fun,’ but there’s no need to sound so gloomy about this.”

“I’m not being gloomy,” the Archivist grumbles, pulling on his coat. “And I _can _be… _fun.”_

“Jon, you wouldn’t know ‘fun’ if it walked in here and gave you a statement.” Melanie opens the door with a flourish and ushers an indignantly sputtering Archivist through, and then waves at Jane. “See you around, Jane. And tell Sasha I said bye.”

“I will,” Jane starts to say, but Melanie’s already ducked through the door.

As soon as the door to the Archives falls shut, Jane jams her earbuds back into her ears and looks back at Sasha’s desk, her previous inexplicable unease returning. Sasha has to be _ somewhere; _Jane had seen her only minutes ago, carrying another box of files to her desk. 

_ But where did she go? _

That box of files that she’d last seen Sasha with is next to the box of Gertrude’s tapes, its lid removed and acting as a makeshift tray for a few loose files. A tape lies alongside them; as Jane draws closer to the desk, she sees that, unlike most of the others, the tape is labeled: written in a rigidly neat hand, reading simply _ Agnes. _

One of the files — Case 0071803, according to the label on the folder tab — is closed, but another folder, labeled Case 0052911, lies open and empty. The paperclip keeping the pages of the enclosed statement together has been removed, and the pages are spread out across Sasha’s desk. The handwriting is small and cramped, the words all blurring together as Jane scans the pages, but there’s a paragraph on one of the pages that’s been flagged with a sticky note.

Unease turning to dread, Jane picks up the page and reads it.

> _ On Sunday evenings, however, we’d all gather for the evening meal, and before we sat down to eat, he would remove the bright white tablecloth that covered it, and we’d gather around the dark wood. I remember it was carved in all sorts of strange swirling designs and patterns. It felt like if you picked a line, any line, you could follow it through to the center, to some deep truth: if only your eye could keep track of the strands that had caught it. _

Jane reads the paragraph again, unable to figure out at first why Sasha had marked it. Then she reads it a third time, this time starting at the paragraph above it for context on _ what, _exactly, “it” was. 

And when she finally makes the connection, Jane slaps the page back down on Sasha’s desk and bolts for the door.

The door to Artifact Storage is open.

Heart pounding hard, Jane slips inside. As with before, none of the lights inside Artifact Storage are on; the only illumination comes from the sliver of fluorescence that cuts through the crack in the door and bleeds out over the main aisle. Shadows of shelves loom out of the darkness, but they are the only forms Jane can make out.

Realizing suddenly that she can barely hear anything, Jane turns down her music a little and takes out one earbud. “Sasha?” she whispers, her voice hoarse from exertion.

No response.

Jane reaches for the panel of light switches beside the door and flips one on. The long, cracked ceiling lamp over the main aisle flickers to life with a monotone electrical buzz, just in time to catch movement at the end of the aisle: long hair disappearing around a sliding rack.

“Sasha?” Jane calls again: louder this time, but her voice is still shaking. She doesn’t wait for an answer before she’s moving again, sprinting down the aisle despite the protesting muscles in her legs and the tightness in her lungs.

Then she turns the same corner — into the space past the sliding racks and before the bookshelves and file cabinets, the space crammed with furniture shrouded in plastic sheeting — and there she is.

“Sasha!” Jane runs up to her and grabs for her hand. “Sasha, what —?”

Sasha says nothing. She doesn’t even look at Jane; she just keeps walking forward with measured steps. Her hand slips from Jane’s grasping fingers as she moves inexorably towards the table: the table Sasha was entranced by before, the table from the house on Hill Top Road, _ the _table.

Jane’s breath is knocked out of her in a sharp gasp, but she doesn’t stop moving. With a few more strides, she’s ahead of Sasha, directly in her field of vision. Behind her glasses, Sasha’s eyes are unfocused, almost dreamy, but there’s an uncanny gleam in them that makes them shine even in the dim light.

_ No — _ Jane’s stomach hollows out in sudden fear at the familiar look. _ Not her. Not her, too. _

“Sasha,” she repeats, unable to keep the desperation from her voice as she reaches for Sasha’s hand again. “Sasha, _ please —” _

Sasha steps around her in one fluid motion, stretching out her hand towards the plastic sheeting covering the table. Jane seizes her hand, gripping it tight, and tries to drag her back from the table. 

The gleam in Sasha’s gaze hardens, and she pulls hard, attempting to free her hand from Jane’s grasp. Pulling back, Jane tries to get ahold of Sasha with her other hand as well. Sasha shifts just out of reach, and then lunges forward, both of her hands pushing hard against Jane’s chest. 

The remaining earbud is jerked out of her ear as one of Sasha’s fingers snags on the headphone wire, and Jane stumbles back, almost taking Sasha down with her. But she remains upright and, though Sasha keeps fighting her, Jane doesn’t let go. 

Music, still loud despite her turning it down earlier, spills out of both of Jane’s earbuds. And though the gleam remains in her eye, Sasha blinks.

Jane doesn’t hesitate. Grabbing one of the dangling earbuds, she pushes back Sasha’s hair and jams it into one of her ears, then fumbles her way down the headphone wire and turns up the volume again until even _ she _ can hear it.

In an instant, Sasha’s gaze snaps back into focus. Her eyes suddenly go very wide, and she yanks the earbud out of her ear, wincing at the sudden rush of noise. She stares at the earbud and then lets it go, her forehead furrowing in confusion.

“Sasha?” Jane lets her grip on Sasha’s hand slacken so she can grab the tangled headphones and shove them into the back pocket of her jeans, but then she quickly takes up Sasha’s hand again. “Sasha, can you hear me?”

Startled, Sasha’s head snaps up. She stares at Jane, the look in her eyes warring between shock and relief. “Jane?” she finally asks, her voice low and dazed. 

Jane exhales. “Yes,” she says, both of her hands winding around Sasha’s. “It’s me. I’m here.”

“Here — where —?” Sasha’s hair whips around her as she frantically looks around her. “Oh my God,” she breathes, horror dawning on her face. “Oh my _ God.” _

Jane just nods.

Sasha slowly turns around. When she sees the table, her hand slips from between Jane’s as she stifles a small, choked cry. “Did I — I _ didn’t —” _

“You didn’t.” Jane places her hands on Sasha’s shoulders and steers her back around, averting her gaze from the table. “But… you were very close.”

Both of Sasha’s hands are over her mouth now as her breathing comes out shallower and sharper. Her eyes are shining again, and alarm shoots through Jane before she realizes that Sasha is close to tears.

For a moment, Jane is frozen, unsure of what to do. Then, moving next to Sasha, Jane carefully slides one arm around Sasha’s shoulders and pulls her against her side to steady her. She starts walking, ushering Sasha away from the table and back towards the main aisle. Sasha is slow, stumbling over her own feet with how badly she’s shaking, but Jane matches her pace and eventually gets them both back to the door of Artifact Storage. 

And though Jane remembers to turn off the light before they leave, she notices, with a chill shooting up her spine, that the light fizzles out a split-second before she flips the switch.

Sasha doesn’t remember going up to Artifact Storage, and she barely remembers getting back downstairs to the Archives. It isn’t until Jane lowers her down onto a couch — Sasha dimly recognizes it as the one in Jon’s office; it’s wider, better-stuffed, and not as stained as the one in the break room — that she finally finishes putting together what pieces she has about where they are and _ why _ they’re there.

Suddenly becoming aware of the headache blooming at the center of her brain, Sasha drops her head into her hands and rubs at her forehead. Her vision is blurring with stinging tears and her heart is still hurling itself against her ribcage, but she forces herself to focus on slowing down her breathing first.

Jane, her lean arm still curled around Sasha’s shoulders, is the first to break the silence. “Do you… want tea?”

Sasha inhales, then, suddenly aware of how dry her mouth is, she shakes her head. “Water,” she says. “And Ibuprofen. Please.”

Jane’s arm falls from Sasha’s shoulders as she gets up from the couch. The door to Jon’s office is still open from when they first entered, allowing light from the rest of the Archives to spill in over the worn floorboards and threadbare carpet, but Sasha is grateful all the same that Jane flicks on Jon’s desk lamp before she ducks out.

After a few seconds, Jane returns, Sasha’s water bottle in one hand and the pill tin from Sasha’s desk in the other. She sits back down on the couch — not as close as before, but close enough and unevenly enough that her knees brush against the side of Sasha’s thigh — and hands both over.

Sasha unscrews the cap and drains half of her water bottle in one long, desperate gulp. “Thanks,” she gasps, and then, fumbling with the tin, pops two pills in her mouth and swallows them down with the rest of the water.

Jane nods silently.

Sasha leans down to put the empty bottle and the pill tin on the floor, then sits up and faces Jane. “What — what happened?” she finally asks.

Jane scrutinizes her. “What do you remember?”

Sasha tries, but it hurts to think with the headache still crowding up against the inside of her skull. “I — I don’t remember getting to Artifact Storage,” she says. “Or — or _ anything _ until you —” She takes a shaky breath, feeling panic clawing at her chest once again. “God, _ Jane… _ if you hadn’t been there —”

Jane’s fingers wind loosely around her hand, and the feeling of her scarred, slightly-too-cool skin against her own brings Sasha back out of her head. Sasha breathes out, then in, then out again, but she’s still unbearably tense.

“... What’s the last thing you remember, then?” Jane asks. Her face is wan and worried, but there’s an oddly intense look in her dark eyes.

The water and the Ibuprofen are already beginning to beat back her headache, so Sasha tries to think again. She remembers first Tim, then Martin leaving for the night. She remembers setting aside her own research until tomorrow and opening up the box of tapes, picking out one of the few labeled ones. She remembers heading into the shelves alongside to grab some boxes of files to rifle through for anything related to this _ Agnes _ — Agnes Montague, if Sasha had to guess; she recalled Jon recording some statements that mentioned her, so if she could just find those, then _ maybe — _

_ “Maybe”? _ Sasha frowns; she _ doesn’t _ remember thinking that. _ Maybe _what?

“Sasha?” Jane’s low voice cuts through her hazy thoughts.

“There was a statement,” Sasha says slowly. “Ronald Sinclair. About the house on Hill Top Road.” She pauses, seeing the mystified expression on Jane’s face. “It’s hardly the first statement we’ve gotten about that house,” she explains. “And Agnes seems to be connected to that place, so... I decided to read through it, see if it had any more details. And —” Feeling her chest tighten again, she stops to breathe. “And then he mentioned the table.”

“And then?” Jane asks.

Sasha exhales heavily. “At first, I — I thought — or _ hoped; _ I don’t know — that it wasn’t the same table,” she says. “But the more I thought about it… it just didn’t seem like a coincidence. But I still didn’t _ know _if it was the same table, so —”

_ Maybe I can find something. _ That remembered thought that wasn’t a memory flickers in the dark corners of her mind once again. _ Maybe I can learn more. _

_ Maybe I can see it for what it is. _

“So?” Jane prompts, a strangely urgent note in her voice.

The thought winks out, and Sasha’s memory is once again impenetrable black. “So… I suppose that’s when I went upstairs,” she says quietly. “After reading that statement, I — I don’t remember anything. Until the music.” She rubs at her ear, her eardrum still ringing. “I guess it was enough of a jolt to my senses to snap me out of that… _ trance?” _

“A trance.” It’s not a question, but the way Jane asks it, it seems like she’s looking for confirmation of something.

“I guess? No. I don’t —” Sasha chews on her lip, fumbling for the right words. “I said _ trance _ because… I mean, I _ was _ in a trance-like state. I don’t remember thinking anything or feeling anything or — or _ anything. _ At _ all. _ But… what _ got _ me to that state was more like…” She pauses, and then finds something she actually remembers. “Do you remember what you said about the table the first time you found me in Artifact Storage? How it has a _ pull _to it?”

Jane nods, her eyes darker than ever.

“It was… something like that,” Sasha says haltingly. “I mean, it definitely became _ that _ once I got close enough to the table; I could _ feel _ it, far stronger than I had before.” She pauses again. “But when I felt it here, reading that statement, it was more like — like an _ urge. _ Some overpowering curiosity, some kind of —”

_ “Compulsion.” _ A muscle in Jane’s jaw twitches as she says the word.

_“Yes,” _Sasha exclaims. “Yes, that’s it; that’s _exactly_ it. I —” She stops abruptly, a new thought occurring to her. “Jane?” she asks. “Do you — do you know what this is?”

Jane flinches from her, her hands slipping away as she moves almost to the end of the couch. Her mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. “Yes,” she says: reluctantly, regretfully. “It’s _ that. _”

Sasha stares at her. “It’s… what?”

Jane meets her eyes with a glare that takes Sasha aback. _ “What you just did.” _

“What I…?” Sasha starts, but her question trails off as she realizes what Jane’s saying. _ Questions. Whatever this… _ compulsion _ is, it’s working through questions. _

My _ questions. _

Sasha swallows. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I just — I don’t _ know _ what’s going on, and you seemed like you _ did, _ and I —”

Jane sighs heavily, all the anger draining from her. “It’s not your fault,” she says. “You — you didn’t mean to do it. And you didn’t know. None of you do.”

“None of — none of the Archives staff, you mean,” Sasha states, correcting herself at the last minute to avoid another question. 

Jane nods.

“So…” Sasha says slowly, trying to process this as best she can. “This… _ compulsion _ is something we can do.”

“Well. The _ Archivist _can,” Jane corrects her. She smiles sourly. “That’s why he’s the Archivist.”

Sasha frowns. “You know, I don’t know why you keep calling Jon by his job title,” she says. “I know he’s a workaholic, but he _ does _ have a name.”

“I have a name, too,” Jane replies. “I had it before as well. Jane Prentiss.” She pulls her legs up onto the couch and crosses them, leaning back against the armrest. “And in between, I was the Hive.”

It takes a moment for Jane’s words to hit, but when they do, Sasha feels like all her hard-won breath has been ripped out of her. “Jon’s — he’s like _ you,” _she manages, her voice suddenly very small. “Like you once were.”

“Not quite,” Jane says. “And not yet. But he’s getting there.”

“Worms and spiders,” Sasha says suddenly, suddenly remembering that old, strange conversation. “Similar, but… _ different. _ Or the other way around.”

Jane shrugs. “Something like that.” She scowls. “That table, though… it’s a _ snake. _ It — it wants to _ seem _like it’s similar, but under its skin, it’s something very different from both of us. And I don’t know what that is.”

Sasha doesn’t respond to that, letting the room be quiet for a moment: at least until her head stops spinning. Then: “I know _ I _ haven’t told Jon about the table, but… I take it you haven’t told him about any of this, either.”

Jane snorts. “I know he’ll figure it out at some point; he wouldn’t be the Archivist if he couldn’t,” she says. “But… all the same, I _ have _ been thinking about telling him. _ Jon.” _She sighs, pushing a hand back through her hair. “And between the tunnels and tonight, I think I might have to, now.”

“What happened in the tunnels?” The question slips out before Sasha can stop herself. “Sorry,” she says quickly.

Jane waves away her apology. “It’s fine. You’re not trying to do it. But even if you did, you wouldn’t be as strong as Jon, even when he _doesn’t_ try.” Her mouth curls up, but her eyes remain dark.

Sasha doesn’t miss what she doesn’t say. “He compelled you.”

“Now _ that _ hurt.” Jane lets out a short, dry laugh. “But I suppose I can’t be too angry with him. After all, I _ was _ under a compulsion of my own.”

Sasha’s eyes widen. “You mean the Hive?” she asks, disbelieving. “I thought it was gone; I thought you couldn’t hear it anymore —”

“There isn’t much of it.” Jane’s gaze falls away from Sasha, a guilty shadow passing over her face. “Just enough to _ hum.” _

Sasha shifts over on the couch so she can reach out for one of Jane’s hands. “Jane —”

Jane stiffens, her hand jerking back.

Sasha is stung, but she doesn’t withdraw her hand, letting it hover between them. “Jane,” she repeats, a little softer. “It’s not your fault.”

“I was stupid enough to want to go down in the tunnels in the first place,” Jane snaps, her voice shaking. “I was — I was _ fine _ up here. I was finally starting to feel like I could live without it. But _ no, _ I just _ had _to see —” She stops suddenly.

“If it was still there,” Sasha finishes.

Jane’s mouth flattens into a thin line, and for an instant, her eyes dart up to the ceiling in a fierce glare. “If it was still there,” she repeats bitterly. “And it was.”

“You can’t blame yourself for listening, though,” Sasha insists. “If the Hive’s song was anything like — like what happened with me, then…” She sighs and finally takes Jane’s hand; she’s relieved when Jane doesn’t pull away. “Then I’m glad Jon was with you. If he hadn’t —”

“I know,” Jane says. She suddenly sounds very weary. “I… know. All too well.”

Sasha just squeezes Jane’s hand a little tighter. After a moment, Jane squeezes back, her face softening slightly. 

Finally, Sasha breaks the silence. “We — we _ should _ tell them, though,” she says quietly. “Jon and Martin and Tim. Tell them _ everything. _ I mean —” She sighs. “I didn’t want to tell Jon, when it first happened. And then I thought I might, and then I didn’t want to again, and _ now —” _She swallows. “Now I’m worried that if I wait any longer, it’ll be too late to tell them.”

Jane nods. “Then we’ll tell them,” she says simply. “Tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow,” Sasha repeats. Her hand slips away from Jane’s as she slumps against the back of the couch, suddenly aware of how tired she is. _ As much as I _ should _ get out of the Institute for the night, _ especially _ after tonight… I just don’t have the strength to get myself home right now. _

“I think I’ll crash here for the night,” she says aloud. “Sleep on the cot in the secure file storage room.”

Jane frowns, surprised. “I was wondering why that was there,” she remarks. “It’s not at all comfortable to nap on, let alone _sleep _on.”

“Somehow, Martin managed it for a few months,” Sasha says. “He, uh… didn’t feel safe going back to his apartment. After you…” She shrugs awkwardly. “You know.”

Unexpectedly, Jane throws back her head and laughs. “So _ that _was why he never came back!” The dark look in her eyes has been replaced by a mirthful gleam. “He shouldn’t have worried. He was never in any real danger.”

“Then why besiege him in his apartment for two weeks?” Sasha asks incredulously.

Jane thinks for a moment. “The Hive had to send a message to the Archivist somehow,” she says lightly. “And to be honest,_ I _ thought it was fairly funny.”

Sasha stares at Jane, not sure whether to be aghast or amused. “Well,” she finally says. “I wouldn’t tell Martin that if I were you.”

Jane smirks. “No promises. He’s still subject to my whims.”

Sasha _ does _ laugh at that. “Yours _ and _Jon’s.”

“And more so Jon’s than mine,” Jane replies wryly, swinging her legs back off the couch and standing up.

“Wait,” Sasha says, sitting back up. “Where are you going?”

Jane pauses mid-stretch, looking over and down over her shoulder at Sasha. “Back to my cell, I suppose,” she says after a moment. “I need to sleep, too.”

“Can — can you stay here?” Sasha blurts out before she can think about it.

Jane blinks, startled. “Why?”

“I —” Sasha chews on her lip, suddenly feeling foolish. “I just don’t want to be alone,” she says quietly. “Not after everything that’s happened tonight.”

Though the expression on her face is deeply uncertain, Jane nods. “All right,” she says with a sigh. “I can take the cot, then, and you can stay here. The couch is more comfortable, anyway.”

“You can stay here,” Sasha offers. “If you want to.”

Jane stares at her with a look in her eyes that Sasha can’t place: a strange look, something between hesitant and hungry.

“... I mean,” Sasha says, feeling her face heat up, “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable or anything —”

Jane is already shaking her head. “Sasha,” she says. “It’s not you that I’m worried about.”

At first, Sasha doesn’t quite know what she’s talking about. Then she sees how Jane’s fingers keep twitching towards the pocket of her jeans where her iPod and headphones are, and she understands immediately. 

“You can still hear the Hive,” Sasha says slowly. “Even out of the tunnels.”

Jane exhales heavily, sitting down again. She’s much closer to Sasha than she has been before, her shoulder and hip brushing up against Sasha’s. “I can,” she admits. “And it’s much louder than before. It —” A shudder runs through her, and she wraps her arms around herself. “The Hive wants me back. _ Badly.” _

“But… you_ don’t _ want it,” Sasha says. _ She doesn’t. Does she? _

Jane is silent for a moment. Then: “No,” she says, the word barely more than a breath. “I don’t — I don’t think I do anymore.” She loosens her arms from around herself and rests her elbows on her knees. “But what I want doesn’t matter to it now. I — I’ve _ abandoned _it. And that is anathema to the love of the Hive.” She looks over at Sasha, her face grave. “Whether I choose it or not, it’ll take me, given the chance.”

Sasha’s stomach twists violently.

Jane sighs. “It doesn’t really matter where I am in the Institute these days. It’s always singing to me, wherever I am. But it’s loudest here.” One corner of her mouth pulls up in a grim smile. “The Hive hates the Archives. And it _ really _hates you.”

Sasha swallows. “Why?”

Jane stares at her silently, her eyes dark with that same strange look again. “The Hive… well. It’s possessive,” she finally says. “And we are… _ close.” _

Sasha meets Jane’s gaze. She doesn’t know why, but something about the way Jane said that is making her heart hammer in her chest. “Close in what way?”

Jane ducks her head, her hair falling across her face. “... Close,” she says, so softly Sasha can barely hear her. “At least. I — I am.”

And suddenly, Sasha knows what Jane’s trying to say. 

… Or, she _ thinks _she does.

_ But I can’t ask her outright, _ she thinks, the realization washing over her in a cold wave. _ What if I actually compel her? What if I — what if I _ ruin _ what we have? All those months of trust and caring: _ gone. _ Because of me. _

_ And what _ do _ we have? A friendship? Or — _Her breath catches in her throat. 

_ Or something more? _

Jane is still avoiding her gaze. But her hip is still pressed against Sasha’s.

Sasha exhales. There’s a way she can do this, if she does it right. “Is it louder now?” she asks. “The hum.”

Jane slowly sits up, rolling her shoulders back. “Not now. But that could change,” she says after a moment. “Right now, it’s just… vibrations. An itch in my bones.” She shrugs. “Irritating, but not overwhelming.”

“Can you sleep that way?” Sasha asks. She doesn’t want to ask so many questions, now that she’s aware of their effect, but it can’t be helped right now. “With you always hearing it?”

“That’s where this comes in handy.” Jane pulls the iPod and earbuds out of the pocket of her jeans and waves it. “Gives me something else to focus on until I fall asleep.”

Sasha takes a deep breath. “If you’re going to listen to music now,” she says, taking care to not phrase it as a question, like she had so carelessly before, “I wouldn’t mind listening as well.”

Jane looks back over at her, scrutinizing her with those dark eyes; for a brief, dizzying moment, Sasha feels like she could drown in them. Then Jane wordlessly passes Sasha an earbud and puts the other one in her own ear.

Murmuring her thanks, Sasha pries her boots off and then lifts her socked feet and curls her legs beside her on the couch. Before she loses her nerve, she gingerly leans into Jane’s side.

Jane tenses, surprised, but after a few seconds, she relaxes. Then she leans back, and, lifting her arm, she curls it around Sasha’s shoulders and pulls her in that much closer.

Heart pounding harder than ever, Sasha rests her cheek against Jane’s shoulder, nestling her head among Jane’s wild curls. Then she puts the offered earbud in her own ear and watches out of the corner of her eye as Jane scrolls through her playlists — Sasha’s, really; she didn’t know what Jane would like, so she’d uploaded all her own music before giving the iPod to her — and chooses a song.

And as the song begins to play softly, Sasha closes her eyes and lets herself drift off into a welcome oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**CW:** Attempted possession by an eldritch entity._
> 
> Case 0071803 is [MAG 67: Burning Desire](https://the-magnus-archives.fandom.com/wiki/MAG_67:_Burning_Desire), and Case 0052911 is [MAG 59: Recluse](https://the-magnus-archives.fandom.com/wiki/MAG_59:_Recluse).
> 
> In my mind, the song that Jane forces Sasha to listen to in Artifact Storage is ["Whisper" by Evanescence](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ots1ybN3Rgw), and the song that Jane and Sasha listen to together in Jon's office is ["Organs" by Of Monsters and Men](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hJZDHW6txk4). The latter song is on my playlist for this fic (which I _will_ post once this fic is wrapped up), and while the former song isn't, it's still a song that I think works well in a general _TMA_ context.
> 
> Two more fun extras! First, here's some art I made over the holidays of [ Jane in <del>Sasha's</del> her Lost and Found jumper](https://numinousnic.tumblr.com/post/189767397397/even-without-the-worms-there-is-still-something). And second, here's [a "deleted scene," of sorts](https://numinousnic.tumblr.com/post/190015236092/in-the-spirit-of-this-end-of-the-year-wip-meme), written back when I was first hammering out the plot of this fic — while it no longer fits with what this fic is now, I still liked it too much to delete it entirely.


	9. Tangled Web

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regarding unpleasant truths coming to light, and a fateful decision made by Sasha James.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... Boy _howdy,_ did this chapter get long. As in "currently the longest chapter in this fic" long. (Not that I'm complaining _too_ much; there's a lot I enjoyed writing here. So I hope you all enjoy it just as much!)

A distant creak of door hinges stirs Sasha from her restless sleep. Her face is half-smothered, her glasses digging into the bridge of her nose, and she lifts her head up only to wince as feeling floods back into her previously numb face. It takes a moment for her still-bleary eyes to adjust to the semi-dark, but once Sasha can make out her surroundings — the threadbare carpet, the crammed bookshelves, the desk lamp with the almost burnt-out bulb — she suddenly remembers, her stomach hollowing out, that she never went home last night.

And _ why _she never went home.

Something shifts underneath her with a small, sleepy sigh. And Sasha realizes then, blood rushing into her still-tingling cheeks, that it is not the couch she is lying on, but _ Jane. _

Planting her hands on the couch cushions, Sasha lifts herself up. Jane is stretched out on her back underneath her, head half-propped against one arm of the couch. One arm is dangling off the side of the couch, her fingers loosely curled around the iPod; Jane’s other arm is draped over her, a cool weight across the small of Sasha’s back. With her tangled cloud of hair wreathing her pale, still face, her mouth slightly agape as she breathes slowly and steadily, Jane looks more peaceful than Sasha has ever seen her.

Sasha tries to remember where her body was when she fell asleep last night, and attempts to run through scenarios of how their bodies might have ended up like this. But in any case, the fact that both of the earbuds are now in Jane’s ears, despite the fact that the iPod is no longer playing music, suggest that this was not something either of them accidentally fell into.

_ Not that I mind, _ Sasha finds herself thinking absently; once she realizes what she’s thought, her heart seems to beat a little bit faster. _ I… don’t mind at all. _

The sound of creaking door hinges once again filters through the walls of Jon’s office, followed by muffled footsteps and indistinct conversation. Glancing out of the corner of her eye at the clock on the wall, Sasha realizes with a jolt that it’s fifteen minutes past nine.

Jane’s eyelids flutter involuntarily at the noise outside. After a moment, her eyes open entirely and her gaze settles on Sasha. “Morning,” she murmurs, her voice still thick with sleep.

“Morning,” Sasha repeats, feeling the heat in her cheeks flare up again. “I, ah —” She sits up a little more, ignoring the shaking in her arms. “I think people are here.”

As if on cue, Tim’s voice rings out. “Jon, if you can hear me, don’t lecture us for being late.” A beat. “And don’t tell us off for interrupting your recording, either, if that’s what you’re doing.”

“We have coffee!” Martin chimes in. “And bagels. From that German bakery?”

“The bagels are why we’re late,” Tim interrupts, “so if you’re going to blame anyone, blame Martin — _ ow!” _

Jane smirks. Despite the tension creeping back into her body, Sasha smiles as well.

“I just thought it would be nice for _ some of us _ to actually have some breakfast for once, _ Tim,” _ Martin says archly; his voice seems to be getting closer now. “And, well, we were getting coffee anyway —”

All of a sudden, the door to Jon’s office opens. Startled, Sasha loses her balance and topples over the side of the couch with a yelp. Jane tries to grab her and keep her from falling, but she just gets pulled down to the carpet as well, sending the earbuds flying out of her ears and clattering on the floorboards. All of Sasha’s breath is forced from her lungs as Jane falls squarely on top of her, her hair falling over her face and across Sasha’s, obscuring her vision.

“— and I know how much you like that bakery…” Martin’s voice, now perfectly clear without a door or walls in the way, trails off. 

Pushing Jane’s hair out of the way, Sasha cranes her neck back and sees Martin — upside-down from her vantage point — standing in the doorway of Jon’s office, staring down at the two of them with a distinctly dumbfounded expression. 

“... And neither of you are Jon,” Martin finishes slowly, his eyes darting from Sasha to Jane and then back to Sasha again, clearly trying to puzzle this scene out.

“Disappointed?” Jane asks dryly, sitting up.

“No, just… very confused.” Martin looks over at Jon’s desk, his brow furrowing even more. “Is Jon… not here?”

“Wait, _ we _ made it here before _ Jon?” _Tim pokes his head around the doorframe, then does a double-take. “Are we interrupting something?” he asks with a grin.

“... Not really,” Sasha manages, suddenly very aware of the fact that Jane is still kneeling over her.

In the distance, the door to the Archives creaks for a third, then a fourth time as it forcefully opens and then listlessly swings shut. Martin glances out the door; Sasha can tell by the way he instantly straightens up, his face brightening, that it’s Jon who just entered.

Tim follows his gaze. “Mark your calendars, everyone!” he exclaims. “February sixteenth, 2017: the day Jonathan Sims was the last to come into the office.”

“There’s no need to sound quite so triumphant about it,” Jon says, clearly peeved. “I saw you two walking into the Institute ahead of me; you were just as late as I am.”

“Maybe, but _ we _ were late because we got coffee and bagels for everyone, so I think our altruism should be taken into account,” Tim says. “What’s your excuse?”

An awkward pause. “I had… a rather unquiet night last night,” Jon mutters. “Can you all stand back and let me into my office? I need to —”

“Wait, wait, _ wait.” _ Tim shifts out of sight, presumably to stand in front of the door. “Jon, do you have a _ hangover?” _

_ “No,” _ Jon says defensively. “And can you lower your voice? There’s no need to shout.”

“Oh my God, you _ do _have a hangover.” Tim sounds positively gleeful. “And don’t try to deny it; I haven’t seen you slink into work this miserably since —”

_ “Fine, _ yes, I have a hangover,” Jon snaps. “I was talked into getting drinks after work, and I made the mistake of trying to keep up with my friends — and before you say anything, Tim, I _ do _have friends outside of this job. Sort of.”

“Hey, no judgment here. I’m proud of you, boss: honestly,” Tim says with a laugh. “Want some coffee? Caffeine will probably help with that headache.”

“Ibuprofen first.” Jon shoulders his way through the door to his office, but stops in his tracks when he sees Sasha and Jane. With his slightly bloodshot eyes and generally disheveled appearance, his confusion seems particularly heightened.

Reaching for the tin of Ibuprofen on the floor by the couch, Sasha grabs it and tosses it to Jon as best she can rather than say anything.

Mercifully, Jon just opens it, tosses a few pills into his mouth, and swallows them down dry. “Thanks,” he says with a cough. “What’s, uh —” He clears his throat and tries again. “Do I _ want _to know what’s going on here?”

“Probably not.” Jane gets up off her knees into a crouch, then pulls Sasha up to a seated position before she stands up fully. “But it’s something you should know anyway.”

Sasha swallows, the decision made during the previous night coming back to her with unfortunately grim clarity._ It’s not something that’ll be easy for us to tell… and it won’t be easy for them to hear. _

_ But they should know. They _ need _ to know. _

“Jane’s right; there_ is _something we need to tell you,” she finally says, getting up off the floor and using her grip on Jane’s hand to steady herself. “I’ve been meaning to tell you all for a while now, but —” Sasha sighs. “Can you all just come in here?”

Jon still looks confused, and a little suspicious, but he nods and walks into his office. Martin follows him, a worried expression on his face and a large paper bag clutched in one hand; Tim, holding a cardboard tray of coffee cups, enters last. 

“Thanks,” Sasha says. “Um… wait _ just _ one second —” As she’s talking, she slips out the door and makes for her desk. Opening the top drawer, she scrabbles past the pens and pencils and other office supplies to the zippered pouch at the very back. 

Sasha yanks it out and opens it up. The tape is still inside, wrapped in the cleaning cloth she uses for her glasses and nestled in between tampons and lip balm.

Sasha pulls out the tape and stares at it. She hadn’t wanted it in her flat after discovering the unknown, unnerving voice on it, but she still couldn’t decide whether to give it back to Jon or not, so she’d taken a middle path. Hidden it away, kept it secret from everyone else. Tried to forget about it for as long as she was able.

_ And look where that’s gotten me. _

Dropping the pouch back into the drawer and sliding the drawer back in, Sasha returns to Jon’s office, tape clutched in her hand. Tim and Martin have both settled on the couch, coffees in hand, and left the remaining coffees and the bag of bagels on Jon’s desk. Jane’s still standing; when Sasha enters, she goes to the door and closes it.

Jon’s sitting at his desk, a coffee cradled in his hands, but he looks up as Sasha approaches. “So,” he says; his hangover is clearly not impeding his usual abrupt manner. “What is it that you wanted to tell us?”

Pulling the chair in front of Jon’s desk back at an angle, Sasha sits down. Then, taking as deep a breath as she can manage, she puts the tape down on Jon’s desk.

Jon notices it. “What is this?”

“It’s the missing tape,” Sasha says. “From the attack on the Institute. I —” Her voice, already so small, catches and falters.

Jane is at her side in an instant. Reaching down, she takes Sasha’s hand and gives it a firm, but comforting squeeze.

Taking another, steadier breath, Sasha meets Jon’s gaze. “Can you turn on the tape recorder?” she asks. “I — I need to make another statement.”

Jon scrutinizes her for a moment, the expression in his eyes unreadable. Then, reaching for the battered tape recorder at the corner of his desk, he switches it on. “Statement of Sasha James, archival assistant at the Magnus Institute, regarding —” He looks at her expectantly.

“Regarding… regarding a revision of her previous statement concerning her experiences during the attack on the Magnus Institute.” Sasha pauses, all too aware of her trembling heart and her tightening chest, then commits herself to continuing. “Specifically regarding an — an _ encounter _in Artifact Storage. And what happened after.”

When Sasha finishes making her statement, the only sound in Jon’s office is the faintly clicking whir of the tape recorder. Even though Jane can barely hear it, the sound still makes her skin prickle with that same discomforting feeling of being watched.

Finally, Jon breaks the still. “End — end recording,” he says quietly and reaches over to turn the tape recorder off. 

The tape keeps whirring. Jon frowns and presses _ STOP _ again, but it refuses to depress. Sighing, Jon leaves the jammed button alone.

Sasha lets out a long, shuddering breath. Her face is drawn and drained of color, and even though her eyes are somehow dry, she still looks wretched. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you all before. I just —”

“Just _ what?” _Tim’s voice is flat. “Just didn’t want to?” 

Sasha flinches. “That’s not fair,” she says. “I _ did _want to; I just didn’t —”

“Did you, though?” Tim questions, his tone growing a little more caustic. “It’s been seven months since the attack on the Institute, and we just hear about this _now?” _He laughs, short and humorless. “Hell, Jon barely kept his paranoia-fueled murder investigation under wraps for _four _months before he _had_ to tell us.”

“Like I said,” Sasha insists, “I didn’t know if what I was experiencing was real. I mean, I _ hoped _ none of it was real, that it was just my old fear of Artifact Storage getting to me, but —” She swallows. “With everything going on, I didn’t want to worry any of you with this until I knew _ something. _ But after last night… I knew that I couldn’t wait.”

Tim stares at Sasha; though his jaw is still set in anger, Jane sees a quiet hurt in his eyes. “Sasha,” he says, his voice pained. “I worried anyway. You weren’t yourself for — for the longest time, but every time I asked if something was wrong, you just kept insisting that everything was fine, and _ now…” _He sighs harshly. “Well. Now I know it wasn’t.”

Sasha doesn’t respond, and she doesn’t meet Tim’s gaze.

“Well,” Martin says tentatively, “we know now, right? That’s what matters.”

Tim shrugs: a sharp, cynical jerk of his shoulders.

Jon nods absently, but his frown remains. “There’s still so much we _ don’t _know, though,” he says. “We have a few statements that mention that table that we could review, I suppose, but we still have no idea what the table does or —”

“You’re right,” Jane says, cutting him off. She looks around the office: at Jon, at Tim, at Martin, at Sasha. “Sasha told you what _ she _knew. Now it’s my turn.”

Martin glances over at her, interest and unease warring in his expression. “Aren’t you worried?” he asks. “About… someone listening?”

Jane’s lip curls disdainfully at the thought of Elias: watching them, watching _ her _closest of all. There’s no question she’s already broken the rules he’d laid down for her, and that he knows what she’s done — and she has no illusions about what his punishment for her will be.

_ If I’m to be enthralled to the Eye alongside them, _ she thinks darkly, _ they might as well know why we’re all in chains. _

“Once I was,” she says after a moment. “But there’s no point in staying silent just because _ he’s _ listening.”

“‘He’?” Martin seems to realize the answer to his own question as he’s asking it. “You — you mean Elias.”

Jane nods, her jaw tightening.

Jon’s frown deepens. “But there aren’t any cameras in the Archives,” he says. “How could Elias be —?” 

“There are other ways to listen. To _ watch,” _ Jane snaps. “This is _ his _ place of power, and we are _ all _ his prisoners, bound to _ his _ beholding.”

“Wait, what do you mean, we’re ‘bound’?” Tim interrupts. “Just what kind of ‘power’ are you talking about, here?”

Feeling all eyes on her, Jane exhales and crosses her arms over her chest. And at the edge of her hearing, the tape recorder keeps whirring away.

“There are... _ powers,” _ Jane finally says. “Entities. Beings that are beyond our being. They’re not of this world, but they _ can _ exist in this world. Parts of them, anyway. Not as they truly are: just in an impure, imperfect form.” She remembers the wasp’s nest: the paper and pulp mask of a face of honeycombed flesh, of an infinite, unseen body of desiccation and decay. “But even so... they have great power here.”

She pauses, taking a moment to survey the room and see if what she’s said has reached anyone. Martin is staring at her in shocked disbelief. Sasha — and surprisingly, Tim — don’t look as shaken as Martin, but their expressions are dark. 

Jon just looks incredulous. “So… they’re what, evil gods?”

Jane snorts. “Trust me, they’re not _ gods,” _ she says bitingly. “I — I used to think I knew what gods were. Another lifetime, some other faiths ago. But the thing I realized about gods is that they’re ultimately _ human: _ created in _ our _image.” Her mouth curls grimly. “These things… they might feed off us, off our fear, but they’re not human.”

“Our — our _ fear?” _ Martin looks up at her, a spark of horrified recognition in his eyes. _ “That’s _what you were talking about before, with the worms and the spiders? These entities?”

Jane nods. “I don’t know how many there are, or how different they are from one other. But I know of a few. One… very personally.” She swallows, the prickling across her skin reminding her uncomfortably of an old itch. “They may not be gods, but they _ are _ like gods in one way: they have acolytes. _ Servants.” _

“Like — like you?” Martin asks hesitantly.

“Like I once was.” Jane sighs harshly. “Like all of you now.”

“What, _ what?” _ Tim exclaims. “But — _ how? _We’re not —” He makes a frustrated sound and throws up his hands. “You know. Wormy?”

“You’re not,” Jane retorts, “because you serve a power different from what I once served. The Institute belongs to the Eye, and so do you. Some,” she adds, glancing over at Jon and Sasha, “more than others.”

Sasha’s face pales further.

“And Elias?” Jon presses, no longer doubtful, but deathly serious. “He’s… one of these servants?”

“He serves the Eye, yes, but he’s no servant,” Jane says tightly. “When I was the Hive, I… was never fully in control. The Hive is legion, and I was just one. But _ Elias _has total control of what he is. And whatever he is, he’s more powerful than the Hive ever was.” She meets Jon’s gaze. “Maybe even more powerful than an Archivist.”

Jon stares at her, and Jane can tell from the way his eyes widen with fear that he finally understands what she’s been saying. “An — an _ Archivist,” _he repeats, his voice shaking in dread. “I — I’m — I’m a —?”

“Not yet,” Jane says simply, sparing him further questions. “But you will be.”

Jon is silent for a long time, his face utterly ashen. He’s slightly swaying in his seat; for a moment, Jane thinks he’s going to faint. Then he abruptly stands, nearly knocking his chair over, and stumbles around his desk towards the door.

“Jon?” Martin bolts upright. “What are you —?”

“I — I need some air,” Jon mumbles. “I need —” He stops suddenly, then whirls around and lunges for his desk drawer. “God, I _ really _need a cigarette.”

“A cigarette? _ Jon —” _ Sasha’s on her feet now as well. “Jon, come on; you haven’t smoked in _ years —” _

“Well, it seems like as good a time as any to pick it back up,” Jon says darkly, producing a lighter and a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his desk drawer. 

“Jon, _ please,” _Martin pleads, putting himself between Jon and the door. “Just — just breathe, okay? Don’t do anything rash —”

_ “‘Anything rash’?” _ Jon repeats, slamming the drawer shut and stalking back towards the door. “Martin, I’m apparently turning into — into some kind of _ monster; _ starting up smoking again is the _ least _of my problems —”

“I know! I know,” Martin says desperately. “Look, Jon —” He grabs Jon by the shoulders to stop Jon from dodging around him. “I know you’re scared. But so are we. And I know everything’s bad, but we’re — we’re in this together, right? So we should be dealing with it _ together, _ not —”

_ “How?” _ Jon asks sharply, shaking himself free. “How _ can _we deal with this, Martin?”

“I don’t know! I really don’t!” Martin retorts, panic cracking his voice. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I _ care _ about you, Jon, and I don’t want you to — to _ brood _ and think you have to suffer alone just because you think you’re some kind of monster! Because you’re _ not, _and I —” He stops. Judging by the panicked, embarrassed expression on his face, Martin has just realized he’s said too much.

Jon suddenly stills, staring at Martin. “Wait,” he says slowly. “Martin. You —” Some color is creeping back into his face. _ “Me?” _

“I know, right?” Tim exclaims with a dry grin; despite his earlier reaction to Sasha’s statement, he seems to be back to his usual self. “I was surprised, too.”

_ “Tim,” _ Martin groans. “Not _ now.” _

Jon, for his part, seems to be speechless. _ “How?” _ he finally manages. “Why —?”

“I mean,” Martin stammers, “I —”

Jon cuts him off, his face stony. “You say I’m not a monster,” he says. “But let’s face it, Martin: when have I _ ever _ been anything but — but _ monstrous _ towards you? I mean, this whole time, I’ve treated you like — like —” His voice breaks, becoming quieter, more pained. “Honestly, how _ could _ you? How could _ you _ love _ me?” _

Tim’s grin is gone in an instant. Sasha has both hands over her mouth. Jane finds herself holding her breath.

Martin’s lower lip is trembling. “So you —” he says, his voice very small. “You don’t —?”

Jon’s eyes widen even more, alarm and regret in his gaze. “I — Martin, I —” He stops, blinking; Jane notices that he’s swaying again. “God, I need _ air —” _He barely finishes his sentence before his knees buckle.

Martin dives forward to catch Jon before he collapses on the floor in a dead faint. Tim leaps up and helps Martin move Jon to the couch, first sitting him down and then picking up his feet and moving them onto the couch so that Jon’s fully lying down.

“Is he okay?” Sasha asks anxiously. 

“Well, he just full-on _ swooned _ like a protagonist of a Gothic novel, so… I’m going to go out on a limb and say _ no.” _ Tim shrugs. “But he’s had to process a _ lot, _all while having a massive hangover, so I can’t say I blame him.”

Sasha almost smiles, but then sobers, glancing back at Jon’s desk. Following her gaze, Jane realizes that at some point during the commotion, the tape recorder had finally turned off.

Tim looks over at Martin, now balanced on the edge of the couch next to Jon. “No offense, Martin,” he says wryly, “but that was the worst-timed declaration of love I’ve ever witnessed.”

“I know, I _ know,” _Martin says miserably. “I shouldn’t have said anything, but — I don’t know; it just slipped out.”

Sasha shoots a questioning glance at Jane. Jane shakes her head slightly; if Jon had compelled any of them just now, even accidentally, she hadn’t felt it.

Martin looks up at Jane, despairing. “Is — is there any way we _ can _ help him? Stop it all from happening?” he asks. “I mean, you’re not — you’re not like that anymore; there _ must _be —”

“There isn’t,” Jane says sharply. She sighs, then continues, softening her tone a little. “There isn’t. Not — not really. Not even if another power leaves its mark on you.” She remembers her old nightmares from her first weeks imprisoned in the Institute: nightmares of eyes blinking open in every single scar on her body. “The old wounds never heal. Only scab.”

Tim frowns in sudden thought. “So… even though we’re all under the _ Eye’s _ control… does that mean —?”

“— that I still hear the Hive, yes,” Jane finishes tiredly. “What remains of it, anyway. But…” She pauses; even though she can’t hear it at the moment, she can still feel the vibrations snaking through the floorboards, burrowing into her bones. “Even with so little of it left, it is _ loud.” _

Tim nods grimly.

Martin looks downcast, but not quite defeated yet. “Well,” he says slowly, “we might not be able to help Jon right _ now, _ but…” He looks over at Sasha. “We can still help you, right?”

Sasha blinks, as if surprised, then her expression turns bleak as she remembers. “Right,” she mumbles. “Um, so… statements. Mentioning the table.” She exhales, pushing her hair back from her face. “I’ve obviously still got the most recent one, the Hill Top Road one, but I’m not sure where the other one is filed now.”

“That was — yeah, that was a _ long _ time ago,” Tim says. “Was that the guy who was eating his journals?”

“That _ was _the one,” Sasha says, recognition dawning. “I think I actually found one of those journals.”

“One that he unfortunately hadn’t eaten,” Tim interjects dryly. “Honestly, I think I got more creeped out by that journal than by the table.”

“But the table was just… _ there _ in his apartment, though,” Martin says. “Same with the journal. And I mean, _ yeah, _ both of them are in Artifact Storage _ now, _ but there’s no reason to believe they had anything to do with what happened to that guy. Whatever… _ replaced _him just climbed through the window into — Sasha?” he asks suddenly. “You okay?”

Sasha has once again gone pale, but her eyes are bright. “Replaced,” she repeats. “He — he was _ replaced. _ He wasn’t himself, but almost everyone _ thought — _” She stops, then bolts for the door.

“Sasha?” Martin asks again, worried. “What are you —?”

Sasha has already thrown open the door to Jon’s office, making a beeline for her desk. From the open door, Jane watches as Sasha reaches into the box of Gertrude’s tapes and grabs one of the tapes off the top.

Sasha reenters the office, closing the door behind her, and then brandishes the tape for them to see. It’s one of the few tapes that is labeled, and the label reads: _ Changeling / Imposter. _

“Of _ course,” _ Martin says, realizing. “I mean, Jon’s been saying for months that Gertrude seemed to know more than she let on, so…” He looks over at Jane. “She was the — the _ Archivist _ before Jon, and for a long time, too, so… she _ must _ have known about… all this.”

Jane shrugs. “Probably.” _ She wouldn’t have survived for long if she hadn’t. _

“Well,” Tim says with some finality, “we won’t know until we listen to it.”

Sasha nods, her mouth pressed into a worried line. Crossing to Jon’s desk, she hits the _ EJECT _ button on the tape recorder, then swaps out the tape inside for the one in her hand. She hesitates for a moment, then presses _ PLAY. _

After a brief pause, there is a voice: crisp, measured, straightforward. _ “Case 9941509. Lucy Cooper. Incident occurred —” _

On the couch, Jon stirs, then winces as he opens his eyes.

“Jon?” Sasha hits _ STOP _on the tape. “Jon, are you awake?”

Jon just groans in response, covering his face with his hands.

Martin quickly gets up off the couch, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Jon. “Jon?” he ventures. “Are you okay?”

Jon lets out another, smaller groan, rubbing at his temples. “Did I — did I _ faint?” _he asks, almost sounding affronted.

“Yep,” Tim says cheerfully. “Swooned right into Martin’s arms.”

Martin gives Tim a withering look, then turns back to Jon, his gaze quickly softening. “Do you need anything?” he asks. “Water, or —”

“You said you brought bagels, correct?” When Martin nods, Jon continues. “I wouldn’t mind one of those; I’m sure my blood sugar is… well, if it exists at all, it’s low.”

Martin nods again, a little more fervently, and reaches over to grab the bag of bagels off the desk.

Jon slowly sits up, his gaze settling on the tape recorder. “Am I hallucinating,” he asks slowly, “or was that Gertrude’s voice I just heard?”

“One of her tapes,” Sasha says. “I think — I think it might have some kind of connection to one of the other statements that mentioned the table. The man who had it in his apartment when he —?”

“Graham Folger,” Jon says automatically. “Case 0070107. Statement of Amy Patel. I remember that one.” He takes the offered bag from Martin and grabs a cheese and garlic bagel out of it. “What’s the connection?”

Tim blinks, surprised. “Damn. Good memory.”

“Well... the connection isn’t the table,” Sasha says after a moment. “It’s what happened to Graham Folger. How he was… _ replaced.” _

“Ah.” Jon hands the bag back to Martin without taking any cream cheese or a plastic knife, and then takes a bite out of the whole bagel. “Well. Let’s hear it, then.”

Sasha hits _ PLAY _ on the tape recorder once again and then sits back down in the chair before Jon’s desk.

_ “ — in Draycott, Somerset, August 1994,” _ Gertrude’s voice continues briskly. _ “Victim’s name given as Rose Cooper. Statement given fifteenth of September, 1994. Committed to tape fourth of November, 1996. Gertrude Robinson recording.” _

There is a brief pause, then Gertrude continues, a strangely plaintive note working its way through her formerly professional tone. _ “There is a stranger claiming to be my mother...” _

After what seems like an eternity, Gertrude’s voice finally finishes reading Lucy Cooper’s statement, and the silence that fills Jon’s office is as heavy as a shroud. Sasha finds herself struggling to breathe, like the silence itself is suffocating her.

_ “Final comments.” _ Gertrude’s voice, returning to its former no-nonsense tone, carries inexorably on. _“Unfortunately for Ms. Cooper’s attempts to convince her father, it appears George Cooper died of carbon monoxide poisoning from a gas leak two days after this statement was recorded, before her next visit. No other bodies were found, and there has been no sign of anyone identifying themselves as Rose Cooper since.” _

An icy chill lances through Sasha’s spine. 

_ “Based on the interactions and effects, I suspect this to be the creature that Adelard Dekker refers to as the “Not-Them” in statement 9910607,” _ Gertrude’s voice continues, heedless of Sasha’s mounting horror. _“If the pattern of behavior is consistent with what he establishes, then further follow-up on this case is pointless — the thing has finished with the Cooper family, and will not be revisiting them. It rarely seems to stay in the same place or with the same people for long, though it’s hard to guess at its motives.” _ She pauses for a beat, then continues: thoughtfully, conspiratorially. _“Personally, I suspect it to be an aspect of the Stranger, though that’s entirely conjecture at this point.” _

“‘The Stranger’?” Sasha hears Jon murmuring behind her, from his seat on the couch. “Is that — could that be another one of those entities?”

“Could be,” Jane responds, her voice low and uncertain. “There’s a lot I’ve never even heard of.”

Sasha swallows, suddenly aware of how dry her mouth is. All the voices around her — Gertrude’s, Jon’s, Jane’s — seem to be blurring into one indecipherable stream, drowned out by the blood pumping through her ears with every heavy beat of her heart.

“I — I’m going to get some air,” she hears herself say. Somehow, she stands; somehow, she makes it to the door and opens it without anyone stopping her.

As soon as the harsh flood of the Archives’ lights hits her eyes, Sasha feels herself snap back into her body, and the weight of what she’s just heard comes crashing down on her. Her breathing coming quickly and unevenly, her head spinning, Sasha bolts for the break room; her legs give out just as she makes it over the threshold, and she collapses on the couch.

Leaning her head back against the wall, Sasha squeezes her eyes shut, but she still feels hot tears streaking down her cheeks. Her next breath comes as a choked gasp, and before she knows it, her head is hurled forward into her hands as she seizes up with sobbing.

_A stranger. Not — not _me. That’s _what — what — _Sasha doesn’t want to finish that sentence, but her mind fills in the missing pieces of that terrible picture: a stranger wearing her skin, walking around her world, and no one knowing the difference.

_ But — but _ someone _ would. Graham’s neighbor noticed. Lucy noticed. _ Sasha lets out a long, shuddering breath. _ So… who would notice I wasn’t _me? 

_ Would — would anyone? _

There’s a light knock on the wall next to her.

Sasha jolts upright. Blinking back her tears, she sees Tim standing in the doorway to the breakroom, worry deeply etched into his face.

Sasha swallows. Though Tim seems concerned enough now, she still remembers the angry set of his jaw and the hurt in his eyes after she finished her statement. “What?”

“I —” Taken aback, Tim shuts his mouth, then opens it again. “I wanted to see how you were doing,” he finally says, sitting down next to her on the couch. “And… I wanted to apologize.”

Sasha immediately regrets her harsh tone. “Look, Tim,” she says, her voice small and shaking. “You don’t have to apologize for being _ right. _ I _ know _I should have told you all earlier; I just —”

_ “Sasha.” _ Tim interrupts her, an unusually serious look in his eyes. “Just — just let me say this, okay?”

Exhaling heavily, Sasha nods. 

Tim shifts position on the couch to face her fully. “I’m sorry,” he says simply. “For not being a good friend.”

Sasha stares at him, aghast. _ “Tim —” _

“No, no, _ listen,” _ Tim says firmly. “Look, I _ know _ my first reaction to your statement was… really unfair to you. I _ was _ angry because you didn’t tell us earlier, but what I _ really _ should have gotten angry over was that — well, that none of us _ noticed, _ not really. I mean, yeah, I noticed that something had been _ off _ with you,” he adds before Sasha can say anything, “but… I didn’t really _ do _ anything about it.”

“That’s not your fault either,” Sasha protests. “We’ve _ all _had a lot going on — between Jane and Jon’s investigation and — and whatever Elias’ deal is —”

“I could have done more, okay?” Tim interrupts her again, an edge to his voice. “And yeah, I get it. You didn’t want to tell us; you didn’t want us to know — _ I get that.” _ He sighs; when he next speaks, his voice is quiet, despairing. “You see something you don’t want to see: something that you hope is just a bad dream, but you _ know _ isn’t. And you want to find answers, but you can’t ask for help because you know anyone you ask is going to think you’re mental. And soon, you just get so used to keeping it to yourself that —” He sighs again, frustrated. “I don’t know; I just… I didn’t want that to be _ you. _But I made you feel like that, whether I meant to or not.”

It takes a moment for his words to sink in, but when Sasha realizes what he’s saying, her chest tightens with sudden pangs. “Tim,” she asks slowly, “have you — have you had an — an_ experience _ like mine?”

Tim looks away from her. Then he nods.

Sasha gasps. “And you’ve never —?”

“No.” Tim leans over his legs, propping up his elbows on his knees. “I thought maybe the Institute would have answers, but… I guess at some point, I stopped seriously looking and started to just… get comfortable. _ Complacent.” _ He lets out a short, hollow laugh. “I mean, we’ve researched so many spooky stories that never get resolved; _ mine _hardly matters in the grand scheme of all that — that —”

“But it’s _ yours.” _ Sasha puts a hand on his shoulder. “And you’re part of the team, Tim. If it’s important to you, it’ll be important to us.”

Tim is silent for a long time. Then: “I’ve thought about saying something before, but… after all this is over and done with, I might finally give Jon a statement of my own.” He exhales. “What Jane said, about those _ entities… _ it makes sense. It’s the first time in _ years _ that anything weird that we’ve seen — that whatever _ I _ saw — has made _ any _ sense.” He snorts. “Even if the explanation is… Christ, it’s _ terrifying. _ But it’s an answer, you know?”

“I know,” Sasha says quietly. “I know.”

Tim leans back, tilting his head to face her again. “Speaking of Jane… what’s going on with you two?”

Feeling herself flush, Sasha buries her face in her hands. “That’s a — that’s a really good question,” she mumbles. _ And one I’m not sure I know the answer to. _

“I’m not trying to pry. This time, anyway,” Tim says. Though his tone is light, his gaze is still sober. “I know you guys have always been close. But lately, I’ve noticed…” He trails off. 

Sasha lifts up her head. “Noticed what?”

Tim looks her in the eye. “Look, Jane really seems to care about you, Sasha,” he says. “And I’m not going to guess at what your feelings are, but I’ll tell you this: if you feel the same way about her, you should tell her.” His expression is completely serious now. “While you still can.”

A lump rising in her throat, Sasha just nods.

“I mean,” Tim adds, cracking a small smile, “you can’t muck it up any worse than Martin.”

Sasha barely stifles her unexpected burst of laughter. “God, Tim, that’s so _ mean.” _

“It _ was _ mean, wasn’t it?” Tim says ruefully. “Don’t get me wrong; I really do feel bad for Martin. I mean, his timing _ was _ terrible, but Jon’s lack of reciprocation was so much worse.” He shakes his head. “And I thought Jon was at least a _ little _ into Martin! I mean, the man _ did _fish Martin’s poetry out of the garbage.”

“I think there’s a chance he is,” Sasha replies. “But you _ know _ Jon doesn’t handle shock well, Tim. And between all the shocks of this morning, I think Jon… _ might _ have been a bit overwhelmed.”

“God, I hope you’re right,” Tim says. “Otherwise, the Archives are going to be _ unbearable _to work in until those two work… whatever’s between them out.”

With only a creak of a floorboard outside the breakroom to announce her presence, Jane sticks her head in through the door. Her concerned gaze instantly settles on Sasha.

Sasha wipes her eyes and musters up what she hopes is a smile. “Hey, Jane.”

Jane returns the smile, but her eyes are still grave.

Tim raises his eyebrows. “I take it you three found that statement that Gertrude mentioned?” he asks. 

“It took some searching. Mainly by me. But yes.” Jane leans against the doorframe. “Only a statement, so Jon’s going to make a recording now. I... didn’t know if you were up to listening or —”

“Um. Yeah,” Sasha says, trying to sound more certain than she feels. “I’ll listen.”

Tim glances over at her, clearly worried. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” he reassures her. “No one’s going to blame you for sitting this one out.”

“I know.” Sasha stands up, suddenly all too aware of how tense she is. “But it’s something I have to hear.”

_ (And I need to know, _ something whispers in her mind as she and Jane and Tim walk back to Jon’s office. _ If we’re going to stop this thing somehow… I need to know what it is I do not know.) _

“End recording.” Jon hits the _ STOP _button with a little more force than before. This time, the tape recorder actually clicks off, and Jane breathes a sigh of relief as the prickling on her skin fades away.

Jon props up his elbows on his desk, a pensive frown on his face. Now that he’s finished his coffee and a whole bagel — to say nothing of whatever happens to him when he records statements — Jane notes that he looks considerably less haggard and more alert than before. “So,” he says after a moment. “This thing, the Not-Them… it seems to be tied to the table somehow.”

“I mean, I agree that it’s definitely not a coincidence that the Not-Them and the table keep showing up together,” Tim says. “But we’ve also got a statement with the Not-Them and _ without _the table, and a statement where the opposite is true, so —”

“The earliest statement with the table also has some… well, spider-y things going on,” Martin ventures. “And I mean, I guess the Not-Them in its original form is a _ bit _spiderlike, but… I don’t know what I’m trying to say,” he mumbles, ducking his head as Jon looks over at him. “I’m just wondering about the nature of this connection.”

Fortunately for Martin, Sasha seems to understand what he’s trying to get at. “You don’t think the Not-Them and the table were originally connected.”

“Maybe?” Martin says tentatively. “I mean, Lawrence Moore said that Dekker called himself an ‘exorcist, of sorts.’ And what Moore described seeing… it kind of sounds like Dekker bound the Not-Them to the table somehow.”

“A _ reverse _ exorcism?” Jon says dryly.

“It makes sense with the timeline we’re working with,” Tim says thoughtfully. “The events in that Hill Top Road statement took place in, what, the sixties? And Lucy Cooper’s statement was from the nineties. But _ this _ statement — the first time the Not-Them and the table appeared together — was from 2001.”

“And Graham Folger was… _ replaced _ a few years after that, and, well, we know _ he _had the table,” Sasha says. “And then the table got delivered to Artifact Storage.”

“I completely forgot about that,” Tim says. “Did we ever figure out who sent the Institute the table in the first place?”

“No,” Jon says sourly, “and at this point, I’m not sure we even can.” He sighs irritably. “God, I never thought I’d be saying this right now, but Elias was right. We — _ I _ should have destroyed the table when I had the chance.”

Jane cocks her head. “Is there a reason we can’t destroy it _ now?” _

Jon blinks; evidently, he hasn’t thought of that. 

“I mean…” Tim shrugs. “Jane has a point.”

“Yes, but is that the best option, though?” Martin asks doubtfully. “If the Not-Them really _ is _ bound to the table, then what happens if we destroy it? Does it — does it _ kill _ the Not-Them? Or — or does it set it _ free, _ or what? What _ happens?” _

“I don’t _ know, _ Martin,” Jon says, “but I think we have a fifty-fifty shot either way.”

Tim grimaces. “Well, when you put it like _ that, _Jon, I’m suddenly no longer a fan of the destruction option.”

“Well, what do we do if we _ don’t _ destroy it?” Sasha demands, clearly upset. “Do we just — just _ leave _ it in Artifact Storage and hope that the Not-Them doesn’t go after anyone else? Or do we get it out of the Institute and make it someone else’s problem and — and resign ourselves to getting statements from more Amy Patels and Lucy Coopers and Lawrence Moores —” Her voice breaks, and she takes a moment to compose herself before continuing. “I _ know _ destroying the table without knowing what might happen is risky, but… I don’t know if we have a better option.” 

After a long silence, Jon nods. “So. We destroy the table.” He surveys the others. “Any objections?”

Jane shrugs. Martin still looks hesitant, but he doesn’t speak up.

“How _ are _ we going to destroy it, then?” Tim asks. “I mean, we’ve got your lighter, Jon, but unless we want to torch _ all _of Artifact Storage and us along with it —”

“Yes, Tim, that would be a problem,” Jon says testily.

“What about an axe?” Sasha asks. “I don’t think our stockpile of fire extinguishers would do much to damage a table, but there’s got to be a fire axe around the building _ somewhere.” _

“There’s one up near the atrium,” Martin supplies. “But unless we want to trigger the fire alarm for the whole Institute, there’s no way we can break the glass unnoticed.”

“We could always just _ buy _ another axe,” Tim suggests. “I mean, how hard can it be to find an axe in central London?”

“I... _ suppose,” _ Jon says, sighing. “All right, let’s say we’ve procured an axe somehow. And then we just… what, wait until everyone leaves, go into Artifact Storage, and chop up the table?”

“And_ then _ we burn the pieces,” Tim says triumphantly. “Obviously not _ in _ Artifact Storage, but we could wrap the pieces up and take them somewhere else to dispose of the evidence. The tunnels, maybe?”

_ “Not _the tunnels,” Jane says sharply, already feeling the vibrations beneath her feet grow a little stronger.

“Okay, not the tunnels,” Tim amends. “But in any case, we find _ somewhere _ to burn what’s left of the table, dispose of the ashes, and just like that: no more table.”

“And _ hopefully,” _Martin interjects, “no more Not-Them.”

Jon considers it. “Doesn’t sound like a terrible plan to me,” he comments, almost sounding surprised.

“Then let’s do it,” Sasha says resolutely. “Tonight.”

“Are we thinking… six o’clock? Seven?” Martin asks. “I mean, hopefully other employees won’t be sticking around _ too _long, but —”

“Trust me,” Jane says. “Nobody stays that late.” Her eyes slide to Jon. “For the most part.”

Jon almost looks offended, but he shrugs, conceding her point.

“Sounds good to me,” Tim says brightly. He glances over at Martin, seated next to him on the couch. “Care to go axe shopping with me?” 

“Now?” Martin asks incredulously.

“Why not?” Tim stands up. “We can even grab an early lunch while we’re at it.”

“I — I guess,” Martin says, slowly standing up as well. “We’ll be back,” he says: more to Sasha, though Jane doesn’t miss the sad little sideways look he gives Jon. “Hopefully with an axe.” 

“That’s the spirit!” Throwing open the door, Tim quickly ushers Martin out of Jon’s office.

Jon watches them go, a strangely guilty expression on his face, then he turns to Sasha. “Why don’t — why don’t you just take a break until tonight?” he says. “I, uh… think you deserve one.”

“Only if you do,” Sasha replies, standing up from her chair. 

Jon looks uncertain. “Well, I —” 

_ “Jon,” _ Sasha says firmly. “You’ve had as hellish a morning as I have. I think you’re entitled to lay off work for at _ least _an hour.”

Jon snorts. “I can probably manage _ half _an hour.” Seeing Sasha’s face, he sighs. “But, uh… I’ll try. To rest more than that.”

Sasha smiles wearily. “Okay.” She turns around and heads for the open door.

“Jane?”

Jane, about to follow Sasha out, glances over at Jon.

“Can you… stay for a bit?” Jon asks. “I have some questions.”

Jane raises her eyebrows.

“Yes, I _ am _ going to rest,” Jon says pointedly. “After this.”

Jane rolls her eyes, but she still nudges the door shut and then takes Sasha’s vacated seat in front of Jon’s desk. “Don’t actually ask any questions,” she warns him.

Jon frowns. “What do you —?”

Feeling her skin suddenly, sharply prickle, Jane glares at him.

Jon’s mouth snaps shut. “Right,” he says slowly. “But —”

Jane sighs irritably. “Asking questions is what the Archivist does,” she says. “Why do you think those statement-givers so willingly offer up all the details of the worst days of their lives to _ you?” _

Jon looks vaguely insulted, and more than a little unsettled. “So… I ask them about their… experiences,” he says slowly. “And they… _ have _to answer.”

“They’re _ compelled _ to,” Jane says darkly. “Even if it hurts.”

Recognition flickers in Jon’s eyes. “The tunnels,” he says. _ “That _ was how I got you to stop going towards —” He swallows. “But — but I didn’t _ mean _to.”

“It’s not something you can help.” Jane tries to phrase it as kindly as she can, but her words still come out cold. 

Jon exhales shakily; he’s looking queasy once again. “And… I’m the only one who can do this,” he says. “Because I’m — I’m the _ Archivist.” _

“You’re the one who can do it _ best,” _ Jane corrects him. “Sasha… I’m not sure why, but she can manage it, too. Not very strongly, but she can.” Her jaw tightens unconsciously. “And Elias… _ he _ can compel. In his own way.”

Jon let out a short, humorless laugh. “Of _ course _ he can.”

Jane feels her mouth twist into a similarly bitter smile.

Jon sighs heavily, propping up his chin on his folded hands. “So… there’s nothing that can be done.” His grimly resigned tone makes it clear that he’s not asking. “What’s happening to me… can’t be stopped.”

“Stalled. If you try,” Jane says. “But not stopped.”

Jon is quiet for a moment, his expression almost melancholy before it hardens into something more solemn. “Well,” he says quietly. “If I’m going to be turning into — into _ whatever _ I’m going to be… at least I’m not alone.”

Jane stares at him for a long time. “No,” she finally agrees. “We’re not.”

Throughout the rest of that draining, difficult morning and the entirety of that dreary, dread-filled afternoon, there had been moments where Sasha, staring at the clock, had almost thought that the _ waiting _ was the worst part about all of this because there was nothing any of them could do but _ that. _But now that the five of them are slowly, silently proceeding down the main aisle to the very back of Artifact Storage, Sasha would give anything for even five more minutes of waiting.

Swallowing, she finds herself gripping Jane’s hand a little tighter; she hasn’t let go of her since they left the Archives, and by now, Sasha’s almost worried that she’s breaking every bone in Jane’s hand. But Jane just squeezes her hand back without a word, and Sasha forces herself to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

And soon enough — far _ too _soon — they are standing around the table.

Tim is the first to break the still; his voice is low, but it still seems far too loud for such an oppressively silent place. “So. Who wants to do the honors?” He hefts the axe in his hands and looks around their little circle expectantly. “Sasha? Fancy some preemptive payback?” His tone is light, but his face is serious.

Sasha inhales, all too aware of how shallow her breathing is. “Um, yeah,” she manages. “Sure.” Reluctantly letting go of Jane’s hand, she reaches out and takes the axe from Tim; it’s a little heavy, but not unmanageably so.

Jon clears his throat uncomfortably. “Should we… uncover it?” he asks. “I’m not sure if the plastic will get in the way or not.”

Sasha glances down at the table. The plastic cover shines underneath the flickering fluorescent lights of Artifact Storage, but even through the glare from the lights, she can still see the spiraling gossamer lines winding through and wrapping around the darkly gleaming wood.

_ It really _ is _ a web, _ she thinks, strangely thrilled at this confirmation of her idle assumption made so long ago. _ But has the spider consumed its captured prey yet? _

_ Or is the prey a predator lying in wait for us? _

“Sasha?” Martin’s voice sounds unusually distant, but no less urgent.

_ “Sasha.” _Jane’s voice is far closer, far more desperate. “Sasha, can you hear me?”

Sasha gives a start, the axe almost slipping out of her loosely curled fingers. She tears her gaze away from the table and closes her eyes as tightly as she can, but the pattern is etched inside her eyelids, tantalizing and taunting her even unseen.

“I — I can’t,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry, but I don’t think I _ can.” _ She adjusts her grip on the axe and holds it out in front of her. “Someone else. _ Please.” _

She hears someone’s feet shifting on the floor next to her, and the axe is out of her hands. “All right, Jon,” Tim says. “You and me?”

A quiet exhale; Sasha can almost hear Jon nodding curtly. “Martin,” he says. “When I give you the signal, close your eyes and take the cover off.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Martin asks.

“Not at all,” Jon says bluntly. “But if that plastic gets stuck on the axe blade and we _ all _get a look at that pattern, we’re going to have a bigger problem on our hands.”

A sigh. “Fine,” Martin says, resigned. “Just give me a second —” A rustling of plastic. “Okay. Ready when you are.”

Sasha keeps her eyes closed and holds her breath. She doesn’t hear the signal when it comes: just a loud, rippling tear of plastic followed by a deep _ thunk _as the axe sinks into the table.

Startled, Sasha’s eyes fly open. She only gets the briefest glimpse of what’s going on before her — Martin, shielding his eyes with one arm as he holds the plastic sheeting with his other hand; Tim, looking at the ceiling as he passes the axe to Jon at his side; Jon, looking down only for a moment before he closes his eyes and raises the axe for his first swing — before Jane grabs her and pulls Sasha against her chest. Sasha struggles, trying to see through Jane’s wild cloud of hair, but one of Jane’s hands goes to the back of her skull and presses Sasha’s face into her shoulder, and everything goes dark.

“Don’t look, Sasha,” Jane breathes, her arms tightening around her. “You have to fight it. Don’t — _ don’t look.” _

There’s a strange, almost pleading keening rising above the _ thunks _of the axe hits and the splintering of the wood, and it takes a moment for Sasha to realize that the sound is coming from her throat. Clenching her jaw shut, she buries her face in Jane’s shoulder as pins and needles erupt all over her skin, stabbing in with vicious precision.

Then there’s a _ crack _ that echoes through Artifact Storage, followed by a _ crash, _and then everything is eerily silent once again.

Gasping for breath, Sasha opens her eyes and peels herself away from Jane. Looking down, she sees wood lying in ragged hunks and splintering slivers on the floor: wood that is no longer shining and beautiful, but dull and broken. Even what’s left of the pattern seems faded and indistinct.

Martin crouches down next to the remnants of the table. Covering his hand in plastic, he carefully reaches out and turns over one of the larger fragments for a closer look. “It’s hollow,” he says, surprised. “Nothing but cobwebs and dust —”

The words are barely out of Martin’s mouth when an unexpected chill courses through the air, and all the hairs on the back of Sasha’s neck stand up. Then she hears all too familiar distorted laughter, knocking around her head with the promise of a future headache, and she whirls around.

Michael is standing next to another, taller piece of furniture still shrouded in plastic; his tall, thin shadow stretches over them, almost reaching the end of the aisle. “That was very stupid,” he remarks.

Beside her, Jane instantly bristles. Martin falls back onto the floor, his eyes wide in fear; face grim, Jon steps in front of him almost automatically. Tim tightens his hold on the axe, but his hands are shaking.

“Michael?” Sasha asks, taking a tentative step forward. “What — what are you doing here?”

“Helping my friend, of course.” Michael spreads his hands, unfurling his elongated, many-jointed fingers. “There’s no other way out of here, you know.”

“What do you mean?” Jon demands.

In the distance, Sasha hears one of the ceiling lights closer to the door fizzle out with a monotone electrical buzz, and the light in Artifact Storage becomes that much more dim.

“You don’t have time to escape before they get here,” Michael continues idly.

Sasha feels her chest constrict once again. “The — the Not-Them?”

Michael hums in confirmation, and the droning vibration jolts right through Sasha’s bones.

“But — but the _ table —” _ Tim protests.

“Oh, no,” Martin breathes, his terrified gaze going back to the broken table. “Oh, _ no —” _

“Oh, _ yes,” _Michael says, his tone almost gleeful. “Even with what watches out for you, I doubt any of you can survive them now.”

As if to punctuate Michael’s sentence, another ceiling light along the main aisle goes out. And then, out of the darkness near the door, there comes a voice that makes every inch of Sasha’s skin crawl with sudden, horrific recognition.

_ “Jo-ooon.” _ The voice — so much like her own voice, and yet _ not — _ drags out the name in a hissing sing-song. _ “Ti-iiim. Maaar-tin.” _ A brief pause, pregnant with malice. _ “Ja-aaane.” _

Both of Sasha’s hands fly to her mouth to stifle the whimper welling up in her throat. _ Oh, no. Oh no, oh no, oh _no —

“But it just so happens,” Michael says slyly, “that I — have — a _ door.” _And with that, his sharp fingers snap shut, easily shearing the plastic off the piece of furniture next to him: an imposing wardrobe, made of gleaming apple-red wood.

The door that creaks open, however, is bright yellow.

“No,” Jon stammers weakly. _ “No. _We don’t — we don’t need —”

“No _ way,” _ Tim says vehemently. “No _ fucking _way.”

Another light in the aisle goes out. And though the electrical buzz spikes into a whining crackle, it barely covers the sound of _ something _skittering over the concrete floor — and getting closer with every second.

“We need to run,” Sasha gasps before she can think about what she’s saying. “All of you — _ run.” _

For a moment, no one moves, not even her.

Then the light directly above them starts to flicker and Jon, grabbing Martin’s hand and practically dragging him to his feet, bolts towards the wardrobe with surprising speed. Jane’s next, sprinting after them with her hair streaking behind her, followed by Tim, still holding the axe. 

Sasha comes last, pushing them all forward past the doorway and into the depths of the wardrobe. _ “Go,” _ she gasps, her voice small and strangled with fear. “Just — just keep moving; just _ go —” _

Above her, the last remaining ceiling light in Artifact Storage goes out with a crackling shriek. Behind her, the unnatural skittering sound rounds the corner and surges straight for her.

And then a heavy, sharp hand with too-long fingers pushes her forward, the door slams shut behind her, and Sasha is sent spiraling into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amy Patel's statement about Graham Folger is [MAG 3: Across the Street](https://the-magnus-archives.fandom.com/wiki/MAG_3:_Across_the_Street), Lucy Cooper's statement about her mother Rose is [MAG 77: The Kind Mother](https://the-magnus-archives.fandom.com/wiki/MAG_77:_The_Kind_Mother), and Lawrence Moore's statement about his cousin Carl is [MAG 78: Distant Cousin](https://the-magnus-archives.fandom.com/wiki/MAG_78:_Distant_Cousin).
> 
> (Also, in regards to "NotThem" vs. "Not-Them": it is _very_ much an aesthetic choice on my part. I may have "NotThem" in the summary, because that's what's in the transcripts and on the wiki, but I just... did _not_ like the way it looked within the fic. Hence: "Not-Them.") 
> 
> And just like that, we're in the home stretch! There might be a bit of a longer wait between these last few chapters, as they are... shall we say... more outline-intensive (translation: there's a lot of shit going down). But I am _committed_ to finishing this fic before April (and the beginning of S5), so rest assured: there will not be _too_ long of a wait!


	10. Lost and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regarding the pursuit and entrapment of the Archives staff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all! Sorry about the delay, but I ended up losing a week due to [painstakingly outlining the rest of this fic](https://numinousnic.tumblr.com/post/190434207457/brunetteauthorette99-its-official-i-can-no) (but _hopefully,_ that means the remaining chapters will come fairly quickly).
> 
> An important announcement before we dive in: if you're reading back through old chapters, you may notice that a few chapters have now been updated with content warnings (which they really should have had to begin with, but I only realized halfway through writing this chapter that if I was going to have warnings for the two chapters after this, that I should really go back and look at the rest of the fic). I've already tweaked the overall tags, but I also wanted to be sure there were specific warnings for when they might be needed.
> 
> (Also, if there's anything you think I missed or anything that I should be tagging, please don't hesitate to [drop me a line](https://numinousnic.tumblr.com/ask).)
> 
> _ **Content warnings for this chapter are in the end notes.** _

The first thing that Sasha sees is the carpet: faded gold, with a thick shag rug laid over it as a runner. As she lifts her aching head up from the floor, Sasha sees that the runner is seemingly without end, streaking down the center of the corridor in an unbroken black line.

_ The — the corridor? _

Frowning, Sasha pushes herself upright, cautiously looking around her as she gets back on her feet. As far as she can tell, she is indeed standing in what appears to be a corridor, wallpapered with a swirling pattern in arsenic green and dimly lit by flickering electric lamps ensconced in the walls. Hanging on the walls between the lamps are countless gilt frames: some holding mirrors reflecting the corridor back unto itself, others containing paintings and photographs depicting the corridor from slightly different angles.

Feeling more uneasy by the minute, Sasha glances over her shoulder. Behind her, the strange corridor abruptly ends in a wall. An antique oval mirror as tall as she is hangs there, reflecting back her bewildered face and bedraggled appearance in strangely heightened detail; everything in the corridor beyond her, however, is blurry and warped.

_ Wasn’t there — _ Sasha peers a little more closely at the mirror, but she can barely see anything besides her own eyes, widening in alarm. _ Wasn’t there a —? _

Somewhere down the corridor, far out of view, there is a faint echo of creaking hinges.

And then Sasha remembers, with sudden, horrific clarity, that there used to be a _ door. _

_ The door, the yellow door, _ Michael’s _ door — _ Her panicked thoughts are racing far ahead of her, past any semblance of coherence. _ I — _ we — _ went through the door, to — to _ escape _ from the — from what we _ released — _ and — and — _

She whirls around. There is no one in the corridor; no matter where they are placed, all the mirrors reflect her, and only her.

“Hello?” Sasha calls, her voice shaking. “Jane? Tim?” She takes a few tentative steps down the corridor, away from the mirror looming behind her. “Jon? Martin?”

No response.

Then, the creaking of hinges comes again, echoing far longer than her voice had. And just beyond where the corridor curves ever so slightly, Sasha sees a flash of yellow.

Heart pounding, Sasha sprints down the corridor, her feet barely making any sound as they sink into the thick carpet. As she gets closer to the curve in the corridor, the yellow comes more into view, and Sasha sees, with a surge of relief, that it is the door she and the others had come through.

Sasha throws herself against the door at full speed, scrabbling for the black handle. Her fingers find nothing but air — and then the gilt frame around the edge of the door. 

Stumbling back from the painting, Sasha hits the opposite wall and feels what breath she has left get knocked out of her lungs. “Michael,” she gasps, then sucks in a quick, unsteady breath and tries again. “Michael?”

Once again: no response.

“Michael?” Sasha repeats, no longer able to hide the terror in her voice. “Michael! Please, I — _ please _ help me —” She stops, takes another, deeper breath, and then screams as loudly as she can. _“Michael!” _

“I _ can _ hear you, you know.”

Even though she feels like her heart is going to burst out of her chest with fright, Sasha forces herself to turn around as slowly and as calmly as she can.

Michael is standing just down the corridor, only a few steps away from her. A few unruly ringlets of his hair almost brush against the ceiling, and Sasha can’t tell if it’s because the ceiling is too low or if he’s really just that tall and she somehow never noticed. In fact, despite how close he is, she can’t seem to make out much of Michael at all; his long, thin body seems to shift strangely, as if she’s watching him through rippling water, and all the mirrors on the walls around him seem to distort his form into something even more unrecognizable and inhuman.

Michael’s white-pupiled gaze moves lazily to the painting of the yellow door, then back to her. “That’s not the way out,” he says, almost sounding amused.

“I figured that out.” Sasha tries for sarcasm, but she just sounds scared. “Where’s everyone else?”

Michael cocks his head, blonde curls tumbling and spiraling infinitely downward, as if he’s confused by her question. But the glittering of his eyes tells a different story.

“Where are they, Michael?” Sasha asks, a little more insistent. “The others who came here with me; where are they?”

Michael shrugs, his shoulders slinking up a little higher than shoulders should. “Not here.”

Sasha’s mouth goes dry. “What do you mean, they’re _ not here?” _

“That they’re not here,” Michael repeats lightly. “They _ were _ here. But they passed through.” One of his long, many-jointed fingers taps the painting of the door for emphasis. “So. They’re not here.”

“They’re not —?” Sasha realizes then what Michael means. “But — but the Not-Them — it’s still out there!” she gasps. “Michael, they’re — they’re going to —” Her voice chokes and falters on the word _ die. _

Michael shrugs again. “Not all of them.”

Sasha feels her breathing becoming shorter and shallower. “Michael,” she manages, somewhere between a plea and a command, “let me out. _ Please, _ you — you _ have _to let me out of here; I —”

“I don’t _ have _ to,” Michael says archly. “And I don’t want to.”

“Well, what _ do _you want, then?” Sasha demands.

Michael’s form shifts forward slightly, coming more into focus, and his face is unusually solemn. “I want to protect you.”

_ “Protect _ me?” Sasha echoes incredulously. _ “How?” _

Much to her disbelief, Michael almost looks _ hurt. _ “Did I not warn you before to not look any closer?” he asks. “But you looked, and what was not you looked back.” He shifts a little closer to her, his misshapen hands folded before him. “But you cannot behold here, in these halls, nor be beheld. I can keep you _ safe _here.”

Sasha stares at him, temporarily speechless. “I — _ I’m _ not the one who needs — who needs _ protection!” _ she sputters. “It’s Jane and — and Jon and —”

_ “You don’t understand.” _ Michael is looming over her now: impossibly tall, surrounding her from all mirrored sides. “What is not you is not as dangerous as what _ he _is.”

“You — you mean _ Jon?” _Sasha asks, disbelieving.

This time, the emotion that flashes razor-sharp over Michael’s face is unmistakably _ anger. _ “So many have come to ruin at the Archivist’s command,” he spits. “Swayed. Felled. _ Forgotten.” _Then, as quickly as it had come, his fury fades, and his once-bright eyes are filled with something close to pity. “And I would not have you join them, Sasha James.”

Sasha is silent for a long time, struggling to form a response. _ Jon isn’t like that, _ she wants to say. _ He’s not a monster. Jane isn’t, and Jon won’t be, if he ever gets to that point. _

_ … But what does Michael know that I don’t? _

“Jon might be the Archivist,” she finally says, “but — but that’s just his job; it’s not who he _ is, _ not yet. Maybe not ever. He doesn’t hurt people, not like you say.” She takes a single, unsteady step forward, looking up through the spiraling waterfall of curls into Michael’s face. “And Jon’s not some kind of monster; he’s my _ friend. _Him, Jane, Tim, Martin — they’re all my friends, and they’re out there, and I need to help them. Because —” She almost smiles, thinking of how many times she and Jane have said this to each other, but it comes out strained. “Because that’s what friends do.”

Michael’s kaleidoscopic gaze guiltily shifts away from hers.

“Michael?” Steeling herself, Sasha reaches out and slowly, cautiously, takes one of Michael’s hands — or at least, one of his fingers; it sits heavy and sharp against her palm. “We’re friends. Right?”

Michael sighs, the gesture sending a ripple through his entire spindly frame. “I have only ever tried to be your friend,” he says mournfully.

“Then be my friend now,” Sasha says quietly. “Help me. _ Please.” _

Michael doesn’t answer her at first. Then, sliding his finger out of her grasp, he raises his hand and taps the tips of his sharp fingers against the glass of a nearby mirror: slightly larger and hanging lower than the others, but otherwise unremarkable.

Sasha looks into the mirror. Unlike all the other mirrors, showing only Michael from all of his uncanny angles, she sees only herself.

“That will take you to your Archivist.” Michael no longer sounds sorrowful, just defeated. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

_ Not really, _Sasha thinks, but she doesn’t think that would be the best thing to admit right now. “Thank you, Michael,” she says. “I mean it.” Then, on impulse, she wraps her arms around Michael in a loose hug.

Michael stiffens in wordless surprise, but he makes no move to push her away.

Letting go of Michael, Sasha takes a deep breath and then backs up to the wall opposite the mirror.

Then Michael speaks. _ “Wait —” _

But Sasha is already running, leaping for the mirror.

Jane’s eyes fly open. She blinks once, then again, and a slightly water-stained popcorn ceiling swims into her blurry vision. A very familiar ceiling.

Frowning, Jane pushes herself up to a sitting position, ignoring her aching back and throbbing head, and looks around. As far as she can tell, this _ is _ definitely Jon’s office: thankfully not Artifact Storage, certainly not wherever the door conjured by _ Michael _had taken them. 

_ But how did I get here — from _there?

A groan comes from close by her. Startled, Jane scrambles back across the floor; now that she’s looking behind her, she sees both Tim and Martin sprawled across Jon’s ugly office carpet, just beginning to stir.

Tim flops onto his side. His eyes are closed, but his face contorted into a grimace. “The hell was_ that?” _he mumbles.

“What was what?” Martin picks himself up off the floor and gives his head a shake, but he still looks slightly dazed.

“That — _ noise.” _Tim finally opens his eyes. “Didn’t you hear —?” Catching sight of Jane, he stops and jolts upright, alarmed. “Wait. Where’s Sasha?”

“And Jon?” Worry is already creasing Martin’s brow. “Where _ are _ they?”

A chill shoots down Jane’s spine. All but leaping to her feet, she frantically looks around Jon’s office again, but there’s no sign of Sasha or of Jon.

Jane whirls around. “What’s the last thing you remember?” she asks them urgently. “Do you remember anything beyond Michael’s door?”

Martin is already shaking his head. “Not — not really,” he says. “I — I remember Michael. And the door. But… I don’t remember where the door led to.”

Tim nods in agreement. “I remember about the same things,” he said. “I went in the door, with —” He stops, and then gropes around him in confusion.

“The axe?” Martin picks up the axe from beside Tim, a similarly quizzical expression on his face.

“The _ axe,” _ Tim repeats triumphantly, grabbing the axe from Martin. “Okay, so: I went in the door, with the axe, and…” He trails off. “Yeah, I’ve got nothing after that. Well,” he amends, “at least until I heard that — that _ weird _noise and woke up here.” 

_ “What _‘weird noise’?” Martin asks.

“I don’t know; it was a weird noise,” Tim retorts. “Like — like a banging, or — or a _ ripping, _ or — I really don’t know, but whatever it was, it was _ loud.” _

Jane tries to recall if she’d heard anything, if that noise that Tim had heard had been what had woken her up as well. But try as she might, she only remembers about as much as Tim and Martin do: first Michael, then the door, then nothing until now.

And then she realizes, with a strange, strained calm creeping over her, that the Archives are unusually, unnaturally _ silent. _

“The Hive,” she says, more to herself than either of them. “I — I can’t hear it.” 

Tim glances over at her, eyebrows raised. “Is that… good?” he asks. “I mean, that _ should _ be good, right?”

“I don’t know.” Jane presses one of her feet hard against the floor until her shin starts to ache: but from her applied weight, not from the song’s vibration as before. “I’m — I’m not sure if it is.”

Crossing the floor and dodging around Tim and Martin, Jane opens the door to Jon’s office. She only shoots a cursory glance towards the desks to confirm that they’re empty before she’s striding down one of the aisles into the shelves, turning sharply at the very back — and then skidding to a halt.

The trapdoor to the tunnels lies open.

Jane takes a few cautious steps forward, then crouches down to examine it. From the looks of it, the door wasn’t unlocked, but rather violently forced open; the hidden latch has been wrenched out of the door and tossed aside, and the door itself has been nearly ripped off its hinges. Long, thin marks are scored into the wood, and Jane realizes, her stomach suddenly hollowing out, that they were made by claws.

Running footsteps sound behind her, then grind to a halt just as hers had. Straightening up, Jane turns around to see Tim and Martin gaping at the destroyed trapdoor.

“That… would _ definitely _ explain what I heard,” Tim finally says, still stunned. “But what could —?”

“The Not-Them,” Martin finishes, a tremor in his voice. “It — it got out of Artifact Storage. It went into the tunnels.”

“Yeah, sure looks that way,” Tim replies. “But why?”

Jane meets Martin’s gaze and sees her own dread dawning in his eyes.

Tim exhales heavily; he seems to be having a similar realization. “Jon and Sasha,” he says. “You think they’re in the tunnels, too?”

“They must be.” Martin’s expression is quietly desperate. “They — they _ have _ to be. I mean, if — if that _ thing _thinks they are —”

“Yeah.” Tim’s voice is dull and humorless. “Better there than whatever was behind that door, I guess, but…” He swallows. “Not by much.”

All three of them go quiet and the Archives are still for a moment. And, as far as Jane can tell, the darkness past the destroyed trapdoor is just as silent as it has been since she awoke, the dead air utterly empty.

Martin speaks first. “We have to go down there,” he says. “I — I mean, I don’t know what we _ can _ do, but… we can’t just _ leave _ them _ —” _

“And we won’t.” Jane reaches out and grips Martin’s shoulder, looking him dead in the eye. “Not a chance in hell.”

Martin nods resolutely.

Tim glances over at her, brow furrowed. “Are you sure about this?” he asks. “Even if you can’t hear the Hive... are you going to be okay down there?”

“I don’t know,” Jane says bluntly. “But I don’t care. I’m _ not _ letting that thing get Sasha. Or Jon.” _ Not after everything we’ve been through, everything we’ve done. _

_ The Hive might take me yet… but _ nothing _ is taking her from me. _

“... Sasha?”

At the sound of her name, Sasha stirs and rolls over. She cracks open her eyes slowly, expecting brightness to overwhelm her vision, but once she realizes there is very little light at all, she opens her eyes fully.

Jon’s face suddenly looms out of the gloom, his glasses slightly askew and a bewildered look on his face. “Sasha?” he repeats desperately. “Is it —?” He swallows. “Are you… _ you?” _

“Jon,” Sasha gasps, overwhelmingly relieved. “Jon, I — yes. It’s me.” She reaches out blindly with one hand, then feels him grab it and pull her up to a sitting position. “Thank _ God _you’re okay —”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Jon says, a trace of black humor in his voice, “but… I’m alive, at least.” He lets go of her hand and sits back on his haunches, his bewilderment giving way to worry. “Have you — have you seen anyone else? Martin, or —?”

Sasha shakes her head. “You’re… you’re the only one I’ve seen since we took Michael’s door,” she says. “He — he _ said _they weren’t in his corridors, but…”

At her mention of Michael, Jon’s jaw tightens. “You _ talked _to him?”

Sasha sighs. “I had to convince him to let me out. He… wanted to_ protect _ me. From —” _ from you, _she almost says, but she catches herself “— the Not-Them.” She grimaces. “But… not so much everyone else.”

“Well, he’s already stabbed me once before,” Jon says darkly. “And now he’s left me — well, _ both _ of us — in the tunnels, so I can only assume he’s not interested in protecting _ any _ of us anymore, least of all _ me.” _

“The tunnels?” Sasha peers around her. It’s hard to tell for certain in the low light, but if she squints, she can almost make out stone walls and a closed door: a small room, with them on the floor in the center. _ “That’s _where we are?”

“Unfortunately.” Jon sits himself fully down on the floor beside her, sighing heavily. “I, uh… don’t remember anything beyond Michael’s door; I just… found myself in the tunnels. Not here, though. One of the lower levels.” Crossing his legs before him, he leans over them, propping up his elbows on his knees. “I… actually did a decent job at finding my way back. Almost made it up to the Archives, but…”

“But what?” Sasha asks anxiously.

“The Not-Them broke through the trapdoor,” Jon says grimly. “I didn’t see it, but… I sure as hell heard it.”

Sasha scrutinizes Jon. Though her eyes are adjusting quickly to the dimness of the tunnels, not being able to see Jon fully is suddenly frightening. _ But… but he _ does _ sound like himself… _

“It didn’t find you, though, right?” she asks, trying to put her senseless fear aside. “I mean,_ obviously _ it didn’t, but… do you think it knows where you are?”

“I — I don’t know,” Jon says wearily. “I... had a pipe with me, that I scavenged from the lower levels on my way up. Not exactly a practical weapon, but… it _almost _made me feel secure.” He almost laughs, but it’s a short, strangled sound. “Anyway, as soon as I heard that — that _thing, _I threw the pipe down the tunnel that I’d come from and ran down here amid the racket. I_ think _it took the bait, but… it’s only a matter of time before it circles back.” He shrugs weakly. “I, uh, hid _here_ hoping it might avoid this room when it _does_ come back, but…”

Sasha frowns. “Why?”

Jon wordlessly points over her shoulder.

Sasha turns her head, squinting at the wall behind her. At first, it doesn’t look that much different from the rest of the room, but the longer she stares at it, the more she sees how _ warped _the stone is: solid, as far as she can tell from this distance, but strangely wavy, like ripples around a stone that’s just hit water.

And then her gaze travels outward, to the desiccated silver worm husks embedded in the wall in the clear outline of a massive circle.

“What… _ is _it?” Sasha breathes.

“I’m… not sure,” Jon confesses. “But whatever it is, Jane — well, the _ Hive _ — made it. Or… tried to?” Sasha can almost hear Jon’s forehead wrinkling into a pensive frown. “I don’t know _ why _ I think this, but… I don’t think it was _ done. _ She was interrupted before… whatever the circle was meant to do _ could _ do.”

Sasha swallows. “Do you think this is what Jane’s been hearing?” she asks. “What she heard in the tunnels that time you —?”

“I think so,” Jon says thoughtfully. “I mean… I don’t know how _ active _ this thing is, but… if the Not-Them is different from the Hive, if they serve different powers… I thought that maybe it wouldn’t want to… _ encroach.” _He sighs again, more irritable now. “But I don’t know. I hope I’m right, but... since it seems like I’m doing everything else wrong today —”

“None of us knew for certain what would happen when we destroyed that table, Jon,” Sasha says quietly. “I mean… we did our research, or as much research as we could. We made our guesses. But we had no way of knowing the right thing to do before we did it.”

_ “Martin _ knew, though,” Jon retorts sharply. “The pieces were all there, but he was the only one of us to see how they all fit together. And we — _ I _ should have listened to him. I should have —” Unexpectedly, his voice cracks. _ “God, _I shouldn’t have —”

A lump rising in her throat, Sasha reaches out to his knee and takes his hand, squeezing it slightly. “I know, Jon,” she manages. “I know. I mean…” She inhales shakily, the air in the tunnels sitting strangely cold within her chest. “I _ know _ that none of us would be in this mess if it wasn’t for _ me. _If I’d told any of you sooner, if I hadn’t pushed for us to destroy the table —”

_ “Sasha.” _ Jon sounds aghast. “Sasha, you’re — listen, I do appreciate that you’re trying to make me feel better, I _ think… _ but you’re not to blame here, either.”

“But I _ am,” _ Sasha insists. “You heard it, in Artifact Storage. It had my voice, Jon: _ mine. _ It — it’s _ set _ on — on _ me.” _ Her eyes are beginning to water and sting. “And once it — it gets me, it _ is _ me. And then there’s nothing to stop it from picking off all of _ you —” _

“I could stop it,” Jon blurts out. “Or… well, I could _ try,” _ he mutters. “I mean, I _ am _ the _ Archivist, _ apparently. Would I — couldn’t I see it for what it is? Could I — make it _ tell _ me what it is, or —?” He sighs, frustrated. “I don’t know. I just wish I could actually _ do _ something, instead of letting things happen. I wish I wasn’t so damn helpless and — and _ useless.” _

Sasha stares at him; she feels a tear running down her face, but she lets it go. “We — we can still do _ something, _ though,” she finally says. “Whether it works or not is another story, but… I think at this point, we just have to _ try.” _

Jon says nothing for a long time, his expression unreadable in the dark. Then his fingers curl around her hand, slowly squeezing it back. “Then we’ll try,” he says. “If… if Martin and Tim and Jane are still out there, we _ have _to.”

Sasha nods wordlessly.

Jon lets go of her hand. “You can… you can do what I do, right? With the questions?” he asks. “Jane mentioned you could, but —”

“To some extent.” Sasha rubs at her wrist; the exposed skin there is prickling oddly. “But not very strongly. And not intentionally.”

“Well, that makes two of us,” Jon says dryly. “Figuratively _ and _ literally.” He pauses. “Do you think that — that _ whatever _ we do… do you think it might be stronger if we do it together?”

Sasha exhales and wipes her eyes, looking at Jon resolutely. “I don’t know,” she says. “But if our backs are to the wall… I think we’ll have to find out.”

There is a pipe on the floor of the tunnels.

Crouching down, Jane shifts her torch to her other hand and picks up the pipe to examine it. There’s nothing remarkable about it; as far as she can tell, it’s an ordinary metal pipe: a little bit scuffed up and on the brink of rust, perhaps, but if the pipe had been down here for any length of time, she supposes that’s hardly unusual.

And yet, that pipe hadn’t been here the last time she and Jon had gone into the tunnels. 

A second torch beam joins hers as Martin peers over her shoulder. “Seems odd,” he comments. “Where do you suppose it came from?”

“I don’t know.” Jane stands up, still holding the pipe. “Jon and I found trash on the lower levels the last time we were here, but… the upper levels have always been relatively clean.”

Tim keeps his torch beam pointed down towards the floor, but Jane can see that his grip on the axe is still tight. “What do you mean?”

“Old newspapers. Food wrappers. Empty bottles. You know,” Jane says. “Trash.”

Tim’s frown turns into a grimace. “So there _ is _ someone down in the tunnels,” he says. “Someone who may or may not have killed Gertrude, but is nevertheless _ lurking.” _

Jane shrugs. “Apparently.”

“That’s _ great.” _ Martin’s tone suggests otherwise. “So… do we think this pipe belongs to our mysterious, potentially murderous tunnel-dweller?”

“I don’t think so,” Jane muses. “The trash Jon and I found… whoever left it tried to hide it, to some extent. _ This —” _ she gestures with the pipe “— is _ not _ hidden.”

Martin looks almost hopeful. “So someone else might have come through here,” he says. “Someone like Jon? Or Sasha?”

“Or the Not-Them,” Tim adds grimly. “We’re still pretty close to the trapdoor. If Jon or Sasha left that pipe here, for _ some _reason, while trying to get out, don’t you think we would have seen them by now?”

Turning, Jane trains her torch on the warped and branching corridor behind them. Though slightly smudged, Jon’s chalk arrow is still on the wall, pointing down the left passage: back to where they came from, back to the destroyed trapdoor and to the Archives. 

But the right passage, unmarked and untrodden, lies before her like a black, yawning mouth, just waiting to snap shut.

Jane swallows. Before the resurgence of the song, she remembers feeling almost _ comfortable _ down in the tunnels: out of sight, immersed in stagnant air and silent dark. But now everything around her is _ still _in a way that sets her skin crawling. Not because of the many eyes of the Institute looking down on her, or what remained of the Hive humming somewhere in the tunnels before her, but because neither of those familiar fears are here with her now.

And _ that’s _what she’s afraid of.

“Have either of you been down there?” Jane asks, shining her torch directly down the right passage.

Recognition sparks in Tim’s gaze. “I’m pretty sure that’s where the — the _ worm _ door was,” he says slowly. “At least, it was in my carbon dioxide-induced haze; I have no idea how much of what I saw was me being incredibly scared, me being incredibly high, or me _ actually _ seeing —”

“— a ‘worm door’?” Martin finishes incredulously.

Jane just nods.

Tim blinks, surprised. “Not going to lie, I was _ really _hoping I was hallucinating that,” he says dryly. “So… you know what that was?”

Jane hesitates. Her memories as the Hive are clearer than her memories before the Hive, but there is so much of that last, longest day that she either barely remembers or wishes she could forget. But there is no forgetting the porous stone under the pitted palms that the Hive scraped along the wall, as the worms first squirmed, then shot out of holey skin, coiling around each other in an endless embrace as they sunk into the wall and made the foundations shudder.

_ Just like casting a circle, _ she remembers thinking suddenly, absurdly, and wanting to laugh in scorn at the thought, hacking up the worms curled in the Hive’s throat. _ Ground and center. Walk deosil three times. Call the quarters. _

_ Then call down your god and let the circle _shatter.

“It was made by the Hive,” she finally says. “Meant to draw in what was beyond the Hive. The festering source of all filth. Rotting its rival from within.”

Tim’s eyes narrow as he realizes what she’s saying. “So the Hive was trying to… _ summon _the power it served,” he says slowly, “to… what, destroy the Institute?”

“But the Hive was interrupted,” Martin says. “So what happened to the door?”

“I don’t know,” Jane says quietly. “But I don’t think it’s closed. If it was, I wouldn’t have been able to hear the song.”

“Well, you’re not hearing it now, right?” Martin asks. “Does that mean the door’s finally closed?”

“And if so,” Tim adds darkly, “who — or _ what _— closed it?”

In the silence that follows Tim’s question, further down the tunnel stretching on from the warped intersection, something skitters over stone.

Whirling around, Jane and Martin instantly switch off their torches; Tim presses his torch into his leg to smother the beam. For a moment, as they wait there, waiting for another sound that none of them hopes they hear, Jane almost forgets to breathe.

_ “Jo-ooon.” _ An all too familiar, yet horrifically unfamiliar voice floats out of the darkness. _ “Where are you, Jon?” _

Martin’s eyes go wide as saucers. In the dimmed light of the one remaining torch, Jane’s fairly sure she can see Tim mouth _ oh shit. _

An idea forming, Jane tucks her own torch in her jean pocket and grabs Tim’s. For a moment, the light of the beam spills out over the ceiling, and then Jane turns back around and throws the torch as far as she can down the left passage.

Before the plastic casing of the torch distantly clatters on the stone, Jane is running as quickly and as quietly as she can down the right passage. After a split-second, footsteps chase her into the dark; a quick glance over her shoulder at the shadowy forms following her confirm for Jane that Tim and Martin have caught on.

Then the strange scuttling sound comes again, coming out of the tunnels and coming closer, and all three of them stop in their tracks in sudden terror. But then it fades away down the left passage, and Jane wordlessly points the pipe forward to urge the others on.

“What now?” Tim whispers; even as quiet as his voice is, the fear in it is unmistakable. “We’ve distracted it, but —?”

“We hide,” Jane replies, keeping her voice just as low. “We wait until it leaves, then we keep looking.” She reaches out her free hand and gropes blindly against the wall, but feels only stone. “Tim, do you think you could find that —?”

The words have barely left her mouth when her fingers brush against wood.

_ “— room,” _ Jane finishes breathlessly. She drags her fingers downwards; they close around a metal knob, and she twists it immediately.

The door is locked.

“What’s going on?” Martin whispers anxiously.

Jane tries to open the door again; the doorknob rattles, but doesn’t turn all the way. “Tim,” she asks. “Is this —?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Tim replies. “I mean, I don’t want to turn on the torch and check, but… I don’t remember the room being_ that _ far down.” His shoulder jostles against hers as he takes the doorknob with his free hand and twists it, but to no avail. “And it _ definitely _wasn’t locked when I was —”

_ “Tim?” _ A muffled, but familiar voice from behind the door. “Tim, is that you?”

Jane’s heart leaps. “Sasha?” she whispers, unable to contain her relief. “Sasha, it’s me; it’s — it’s _ Jane. _” She leans her forehead against the door. “Tim and Martin are with me; is Jon with you?”

“I’m here.” Definitely Jon’s voice. “Where have _ you _all been?”

“Your office, actually,” Tim says. “Michael dumped us there, but we heard the commotion from the tunnels and figured —”

Jon cuts him off. “Where’s the Not-Them now? Have you heard it since?”

“Unfortunately, yeah. It’s in the other passageway as we speak.” Tim tries the doorknob again, unsuccessfully. “Look, can you just let us in? I don’t want to be out in the open any longer than strictly necessary.”

A long pause. Tilting her head to the side, Jane presses her ear fully against the door, straining to hear anything she can.

“— been replaced?” Jon is saying. “Should — should I try to _ ask _them something? Figure out if they all are who they say?”

“Would that even do anything?” Sasha questions. “We don’t know if the Not-Them absorb memories or not; does it know everything that —?”

Jane peels her face away from the door and turns to Tim and Martin. “They’re trying to figure out if we are who we say we are,” she reports.

“I mean… I can’t blame them, but also, we _ really _can’t wait around out here,” Tim says. “If the Not-Them decides to turn around — Martin?”

Martin is squeezing his way past both of them to the door, pressing his ear to it as Jane had done just moments before. “Jon?” he says tentatively. “Jon, it’s — it’s Martin.”

No response from behind the door.

“Listen, Jon,” Martin tries again. “If you’re looking for a way to know if we are who we say we are... well. Here it is.” He inhales shakily. “I — I told you something earlier. How I felt —how I _ feel _about you.”

Still no response.

Martin lets out a tired little sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “And, well… I know you probably don’t feel the same way, but… I’ve been wanting to tell you anyway, because — because you’re _ better _ than you think you are, Jon.” His lower lip is beginning to tremble again, but he squares his jaw and keeps going. “Look, I keep getting glimpses of _ you _ through the cracks of all these _ walls _ that you’ve thrown up — and — and I don’t know why you don’t want anyone to see you, but… I _ have. _And…” Martin’s voice trails off. “I just… wish that you could see yourself, too.”

Jane expects no response to come, as before. But then she hears the _ click _of the lock, and then the door cracks open.

Jon is standing just inside, staring at Martin with an expression Jane can’t place. “Martin, I —”

“Look, it’s _ okay, _ Jon,” Martin says miserably. “You don’t have to —”

“I — I don’t… _ not _ feel the same way — I mean —” Jon is stumbling over his words even worse than Martin had been. “I don’t feel how you — how you _ think _ I feel — _ Christ, _ I mean —” Pinching the bridge of his nose, Jon takes a deep breath and then looks at Martin with a directness at odds with the sudden softness of his gaze. “Martin. I _ do.” _

At first, all Martin seems to be able to do is stare back, utterly floored. Then he all but throws himself at Jon, wrapping him up in a fiercely warm embrace. Jon only looks surprised for a moment, then he slowly, carefully curls his arms around Martin, returning the hug.

Tim coughs pointedly. “Not to ruin the moment or anything, but can we all get inside?”

“Right. Yes. Of course.” Jon unwraps one arm from around Martin long enough to nudge open the door a little wider.

Sasha opens the door the rest of the way, and then yanks both Tim and Jane inside before closing the door and locking it again. As soon as the lock clicks shut, Jane pulls Sasha into her arms, both too tired and too relieved to do anything other than hold her there and vainly wish she couldn’t let go.

Despite how weary she looks, Sasha manages a smile before her gaze suddenly becomes concerned. “Are you all right? Down here?” she asks. “You’re not — you’re not hearing anything?”

Jane shakes her head. Even with where they are now — in the tunnels, in this chamber in particular — she still has yet to feel even the slightest of vibrations, let alone _ hear _anything.

Sasha’s eyes widen. “Really?” she asks. “So you think — you think it’s —?” Her gaze slides from Jane to the wall behind her.

Jane turns around, her arms falling away from Sasha. Even in the dim light, she sees the pale outline of the circle gleaming on the far wall.

Taking her torch out of her pocket and turning it on again, Jane slowly approaches the circle. Something crunches underfoot, and she casts her torch beam down to see a few empty silver husks scattered on the floor. Swallowing, she skirts around the dead worms and keeps going; even after all this time, it doesn’t feel right to step on them.

_ Is this it? _ she thinks, turning her attention back up to the wall, tracing the outline between the snugly fitted, straight stone and the weakened, warped stone with the torch beam. _ Is this all that’s left? All that’s left of the Hive, and it _still —

And then, she is standing before the wall. While the circle isn’t as large as she remembers it being, it’s no less impressive as it looms over her, surrounding her with its faint glow. 

“Jane?” Sasha asks; Jane can hear her take a few hesitant footsteps closer. “Jane, what are you doing?”

“More importantly,” Tim says, alarmed, “what the hell is the _ circle _doing?”

At the sound of their voices, Jane gives a start, and the torch jerks in her hand, the beam darting away from the outline of the circle. Even in the near-dark, the glow of the dead worms embedded in the wall only seems to strengthen, pulsing with a sallow, sickly light that floods through the desiccated husks, through the crumbling mortar binding the warped stone within — 

— and then, the circle is thrumming with something _ else. _

The torch and the pipe fall to the floor as Jane tries to clap her hands over her ears, as the vibrations hit her squarely in the chest and send her stumbling back, as the hum becomes a song becomes a _ shriek _ lancing through her skull. It isn’t until she hits the floor, until every bone in her body jolts and throbs and melts into the music, until her vision blinks out with no warning and she’s plunged into darkness, that she dimly realizes that _ she’s _ the one screaming.

And what is left of the Hive triumphantly sings its hymn: loud and lovely and lethal.

There are hands on her, hands struggling to hold her, pin her to the floor, and she squirms and writhes in their grasp, fighting them as the song swells in her heart and pumps through her veins. She gets an arm free and scrabbles blindly against the stone, trying to crawl away, claw her way back to the wall, but a hand closes around her wrist and yanks it away. Other hands begin to drag her back, her body scraping across the floor and sending tremors through her bones, and she thrashes even harder, wildly lashing out with whatever limbs that aren’t held down.

_ “Jane!” _ she faintly hears someone cry over the song. “Jane, don’t —”

“Martin, help me hold her!” another voice yells. “I can’t —”

“Jane,_ please!” _ the first voice begs. “Don’t listen to it; you’ve got to _ fight _it —”

It’s only once that voice is once again drowned out by the song burrowing into her brain that Jane — _ is that my name? it must be, but is it really? — _recognizes who it belongs to.

“Sa — Sash — _ Sasha —” _ Her tongue is heavy in her mouth and she can barely form the name, even the thought of the name. _ Sasha. Sasha James. Sasha and Jane. _

_ The Hive was silent because of you. _ The sudden realization ricochets around her skull, spiraling more and more out of control as her fear mounts, as the song slithers towards its crescendo. _ It wanted me, but it didn’t want me to find _ you. _ But it knew it would get me one way or another, so it _ waited _ for its chance and — Sasha, Sasha, _ Sasha, _ I’m sorry, I’m _ so _ sorry, I’m — _

“I don’t want to _ compel _ her!” a third voice rebukes someone sharply. “I — I don’t really know _ how _ and _ — _ and it’ll _ hurt _ her _ —” _

“Just _ try, _ Jon!” the first voice, _ Sasha, _ yells. “If the Hive —”

_ Jon. Jon. Who is he? _ she almost wonders, but when the song hits a unexpectedly jarring, discordant note that sets her teeth aching, she has her answer. _ He is the Archivist… and the Archivist could command the Hive. _

_ “Jane —” _ the third voice, _ Jon, _ says urgently. “Jane, if you can hear me, I’m sorry about this—”

_ Jane. _ The song wavers, as if it can’t decide whether to surge in anger or subside in fear, and now it is _ her _ turn to feel triumph. _ That _ is _ my name. That is _ my name _ and I’ll die before anything takes it from me again — _

“Do it,” Jane gasps, while she still has air in her lungs and the will to speak. “Jon, just _ do it —” _

The song of the Hive is no longer honey-sweet, but howling in incoherent fury as it rises up and reaches its peak, a ruinous wave of sound ready to drown her once and for all. 

And then Jon’s voice cuts across it, ringing out over the eruption of static in a cold, clear command:

_ “Don’t listen to the song.” _

With one last convulsion, Jane collapses. Her jaw slackens, but her limbs tremble almost imperceptibly, as if straining against some invisible bond. One by one, Sasha, Tim, and Martin cautiously let go of her; Jane remains unnaturally still and silent, and she does not fight them any further.

His face drained of color, Jon sways, then lets himself fall on his hands and knees beside Jane. “Did — did it work?” he asks in between gasps of air.

Before anyone can answer, a strange sound wheezes out of Jane’s mouth, somewhere between a moan and a sob. Eyes still shut tight, her whole body shuddering, she rolls over on her side and curls into an almost-fetal position.

And then, outside in the tunnels, there comes the reedy, grating screech of nails — no, _ claws — _dragging slowly and deliberately over stone.

_ “Come out, come out, wherever you are.” _ Sasha stiffens as her voice — _ no, the _ Not-Them’s _ voice; that’s not me; it _ won’t _ be me _ — floats through the silent, stagnant air. _ “I know you’re hiding here somewhere.” _

Taking up the axe that he let fall on the floor earlier when restraining Jane, Tim gets to his feet. Martin grabs hold of Jon; Jon, his face even more haggard and colorless than before, slumps against Martin.

_ “I heard the song. And I heard the _ screaming.” The Not-Them laughs — or at least, it lets out a deep, distorted hacking sound that could pass for a laugh. _ “But now you’re all so _ quiet. _ That’s no fun.” _

Sasha’s gaze darts behind her, to the far wall. The stone within the circle is just as warped as before, but the circle itself is barely glowing, the worm husks feebly wriggling and flickering with a fast-fading light. 

_ Jon did it, _ she realizes, a strange feeling sinking in her stomach. _ He stopped it. Or — _ almost _ stopped it — _

_ “Jon?” _ The Not-Them’s voice sounds eerily, unsettlingly more like her own now. _ “Jon, it’s Sasha. Please, I’m so lost down here; you’ve got to help me.” _

Jon’s gaze snaps to her, suddenly wary. Sasha shakes her head wordlessly.

_ “Martin? Tim?” _ A pause. _ “Tim?” _ The Not-Them’s voice has shifted into a lower range: almost like Tim’s voice, but not quite. _ “Tim, can you hear me? Can you find me? We don’t have much time before the show starts.” _

Tim flinches, like he’s been slapped across the face, and the hand that’s holding the axe is white-knuckled and shaking.

The Not-Them laughs again, higher and crueler than before. _ “Jane?” _ it asks, its voice once again Sasha’s. _ “Jane, what are you doing down here? Don’t you know there are _ monsters _ in these tunnels?” _

Jane stills again; aside from her ragged breathing, she makes no sound.

The claws shriek over stone again, much closer this time. _ “Do you have any idea how long I’ve watched you? How long I’ve _ waited _ for someone stupid enough to wander into the webs that trapped me, let alone cut them up?” _ the Not-Them demands, a sudden, harsh note distorting its impression of Sasha. _ “But now that I’m finally free to wander the house of the enemy, there are too many eyes for me to go unnoticed.” _ It pauses, relishing the awful silence. _ “So I need a _ disguise. _ And now, I have so many to choose from.” _

Even as his arms tremble with barely concealed fear, Martin tightens his grip on Jon.

_ “Your scarred skin doesn’t suit me, Archivist: not like Sasha’s.” _ The Not-Them sighs in malicious contentment. _ “So smooth. So soft. So _ yielding.” Its claws swipe across the wall again for emphasis, and it takes all that Sasha has to suppress her shudder. _ “But your skin is special. I wonder if it’ll make me special, too.” _

Jon presses his hand over his mouth, but Sasha can still hear the quiet whimper he’s trying to stifle.

_ “Oh, yes,” _ the Not-Them hisses. _ “I think I _ will _ wear you, Archivist. Rob the eye of its pupil, one way or another.” _ It laughs again, a gleefully sinister sound. _ “You’ll miss the Unknowing, of course, but you wouldn’t understand it, anyway.” _

Slowly backing away from the door, Tim crouches down next to Jon and Martin. “Jon,” he whispers, “I know you don’t want to, but do you think you could —?”

Jon’s already shaking his head. “I — I don’t think I have the strength,” he replies hoarsely. “The Hive was nearly dead, and it_ still_ took everything I had to silence it. And that _thing —”_

_ “There you are.” _ The Not-Them sounds positively _ delighted, _ and Sasha can’t help but hear a slow, spiteful smile spreading across whatever passed for its face. _ “I knew you couldn’t stay quiet for long. Your kind does so like to _ talk, _ Archivist.” _

_ “... Shit,” _ Jon says very quietly.

Outside, the slow, deliberate scratching of the Not-Them’s claws changes timbre from a sharp screech to a dull scraping. Sasha then realizes, the jolt of horror almost dizzying, that it is at the door.

She glances around at all of them. Though Tim’s expression is grimly resigned, he’s getting back on his feet, standing between the door and the rest of them with the axe in both hands. Jon listlessly stares at the door, fear in his eyes; Martin’s still holding onto him, though Sasha can’t tell whether it’s to calm Jon or himself. And, lying on the floor before her, Jane has barely moved.

Sasha reaches out and brushes Jane’s hair away from her face; her scarred skin is flushed and sweaty, as if she’s in the throes of a fever. Jane stirs, her eyelids fluttering open for a moment before she winces and closes them again. Letting her hand fall, Sasha stares down at Jane, a lump rising in her throat. 

_ If you feel the same way about her, you should tell her, _ she suddenly hears her memory of Tim tell her, with all the gravity and conviction of someone who wishes he could have taken that advice once. _ While you still can. _

Sasha swallows. _ Well… I still can. _

Leaning over and wrapping her arms around Jane, Sasha turns over Jane’s limp body and pulls her as upright as she can. “Jane?” she says, lowering her voice. “Can you hear me?”

Jane exhales shakily, her head lolling against Sasha’s chest.

Sasha figures that’s the most coherent answer she’s going to get. “I need to tell you something,” she says, trying to keep her voice from cracking. “Before —”

The doorknob twists violently, the lock rattling. And then something heavy hits the door with a _ thud, _almost making the hinges buckle under the force.

Choking back a sob, Sasha buries her face in Jane’s hair. “You said last night that the Hive hates — _ hated _ — me because we’re _ close, _ because you felt close to _ me,” _she manages. “And I — I feel the same way; Jane, I —”

The Not-Them hits the door again, harder this time, and one of the hinges is ripped out of place as the door begins to crack and splinter.

“Jane,” Sasha whispers, so softly she can barely hear herself, _ “I love you.” _

Her words are suddenly, sharply drowned out by a high, bone-chilling scream and a thunderous scraping of stone. And then everything around them goes pitch black.

A stunned silence falls over the chamber, and none of them move. Then, after a beat, someone fumbles in the darkness and a torch is turned on; Martin, holding the torch in question and blinking furiously in its sudden light, looks equal parts relieved and bewildered.

At first, Sasha can’t figure out why everything suddenly became so dark. But when Martin’s torch beam flashes across the wall behind her as he completes what looks to be a silent headcount, she sees that the circle of worms has finally stopped glowing.

And then the lock on the door _ clicks. _

Tim takes a startled step back, then stands his ground and secures his grip on the axe. Martin scrambles to his feet, aiming the torch beam forward. Jon remains on the floor, a suspicious frown furrowing his brow. Sasha just wraps her arms around Jane a little tighter and turns her gaze to the door.

The doorknob turns with no resistance, and the door swings listlessly open.

Standing in the doorway, squinting in the torch beam, is an old man with thinning grey hair and a beard. His clothes are well-worn and hang a little loosely on his frame, as if he used to fill them out better, and a satchel is slung over one shoulder; he carries a bulky book bound in faded green cloth in the opposite hand.

His alert eyes dart over each of them in turn before they settle on Jon. “Jonathan Sims?” he asks in a surprisingly sonorous voice.

Jon’s frown deepens. “Yes?” he says warily, slowly getting up. “And who are _ you, _exactly?”

The unknown man sighs with no small amount of finality. “My name is Jurgen Leitner,” he says. “And I think it’s time we had a talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**CW:** Entrapment in an eldritch dimension, attempted possession by an eldritch entity, threat of death._
> 
> Excellent news: there is now more art inspired by this fic! [@cthuluhunter](https://cthuluhunter.tumblr.com/) made [an absolutely _gorgeous_ portrait of Jane](https://numinousnic.tumblr.com/post/190689296327/i-am-in-awe-of-this-art-the-level-of-detail-is), and I haven't been able to stop looking at it since Thursday, because it is just that beautiful — which means that all of you should _definitely_ behold it as well.


	11. Unseen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regarding Jurgen Leitner, and the many complications to his plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _ **Content warnings are in the end notes.** _

Jon instantly tenses, his hands clenching into fists at his side. _ “Jurgen Leitner?” _he repeats, an edge to his voice.

The man — _ Jurgen Leitner, apparently? _Sasha corrects herself, though she still doesn’t quite believe it — raises his eyebrows. “I see you’ve heard of me.”

“We work at the Magnus Institute; of _ course _ we’ve heard of you,” Tim retorts; though he’s lowered the axe slightly, he’s still gripping it securely in one hand. _ “And _those books of yours.”

“But — wait, hang on, aren’t you supposed to be _ dead?” _Martin interrupts, his forehead furrowed in confusion. “When your library was destroyed —”

“Well, some people would greatly prefer I be dead,” Leitner says dryly. “But, as you can see, I am very much alive. As are you all,” he adds. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

If his deepening glare is any indication, Jon doesn’t seem particularly keen to thank him.

“What happened to the Not-Them?” Sasha asks warily. “Is it —?”

“— dead? Unlikely,” Leitner says. “Whether something like that can actually be destroyed is… doubtful. But it _ is _trapped: hopefully, for a very long time.” He glances over his shoulder, then back at her. “All things considered, you were lucky to avoid it for as long as you did.”

Sasha tries not to dwell on what would have happened to her — to all of them — if they hadn’t been as _ lucky. _ “How _ did _you trap it, then?” she asks.

“With this.” Leitner hefts the bulky book bound in green cloth and holds it out towards Jon. “I imagine this might be of some interest to you, Archivist.”

Jon eyes the book suspiciously.

After a moment, Tim reaches past Jon and gingerly takes the book from Leitner, tilting it so he can read the title on the spine. _ “The Seven Lamps of Architecture. _Ruskin.” He lets out a low whistle. “If it wasn’t deeply cursed, I would kill to have a first edition like this.”

“An unexpurgated 1845 edition,” Leitner supplies. “Of course, Ruskin didn’t even begin writing the essay until 1846, and the text of this edition varies markedly from its ‘original’ publication in book form in 1849.”

“So what does it actually do?” Martin asks, even though he doesn’t sound like he really wants to hear the answer.

“Reading it gives one the acute sense that the walls are pressing in around them — and, if consumed recklessly, it will physically entomb the reader,” Leitner says. “But over the years, I’ve found that it interacts with the architecture of Robert Smirke — specifically, these tunnels — in a more predictable way.” He retrieves the book from Tim, tucking it away in the satchel at his side. “By carefully reading specific passages in certain locations, I’m able to exercise a degree of control over the substance of the tunnels.”

Jon cuts in. “You can change the tunnels, you mean.”

“It’s a time-consuming and imprecise process, to say nothing of the obvious dangers, but yes: I can,” Leitner says. “That said, I will admit that when you began to explore the tunnels, I… _ did _ manipulate them a little more than I had previously. Mainly the upper levels; I’ve found that they tend to be a little more malleable.” He looks dubiously at Jon. “It didn’t strike you as odd that you were able to navigate the tunnels so easily after only a few trips?”

“I — I thought I was just getting a sense of the place.” Jon looks a bit embarrassed, but still mostly sullen. “And I suppose you left the rubbish around as well? Giving me _ hints?” _

“I thought I was being careful cleaning up after myself, but you have keener eyes than I gave you credit for. Should have expected that, I suppose.” Leitner chuckles ruefully, then sobers. “In retrospect, using _ The Seven Lamps _so much was perhaps unwise. It’s possible I’ve unbalanced Smirke’s architecture somewhat — but with the Not-Them, I didn’t quite have the time to take my usual precautions.”

“How’d you manage to get close enough to — to _ wall _ it up, though?” Tim asks, crossing his arms. “Granted, it was pretty focused on us, but I imagine something like _ that _ is hard to sneak up on.”

Leitner pulls out another book — barely a book, more of a bound pamphlet — from his satchel, but does not hold it out to them. _ “A Disappearance,” _ he explains. “If read cover to cover, it removes one from this world. I… cannot say _ precisely _what that means: only that the assistant that I assigned to it, Jacob Feng, was never seen again.” He slides it back into his satchel. “I have found, however, that reading only one or two words is sufficient to hide me from view: especially from the prying eyes of your master.”

“My ‘master’? Do you mean Elias?” Jon asks darkly. “Or the — the _ Eye?” _

Leitner glances over at him, surprised. “So,” he says, “you _ do _ know some things.”

Jane speaks then, her voice weak and hoarse. “As much as I know.”

Relief floods through Sasha upon hearing Jane’s voice. _ She’s here. She’s still here with me. She’s not — _

Leitner looks from Jane to the circle of worms sunken into the wall and then back to Jane, a thoughtful frown on his face. “Would I be correct in assuming you were the avatar who made that?” he asks. “You’ll forgive my rudeness, but your scars_ are _distinctive.”

Jane nods. She tries to push herself upright, but her arms tremble violently with the effort. Sasha wraps an arm around her shoulders and helps her sit up; Jane’s head flops over onto her shoulder, briefly smothering Sasha with her hair.

“Fascinating,” Leitner muses, his gaze going back to the wall. “I _ was _ wondering why the Corruption had taken up residence in the tunnels, but I hardly imagined it was to stage a _ ritual. _Then again,” he adds offhandedly, “I was hardly going to confirm any of my hypotheses with those worms crawling all over the tunnels.”

“A ritual?” Jon repeats. “What do you mean, _ a ritual?” _

“Ah. So you don’t _ quite _ know everything.” Leitner turns his attention back to Jon, his countenance grave. “But... that _ is _ why I’m here, Archivist. Why I need your help.”

“Help _ you?” _Jon laughs, short and humorless. “I don’t think so.”

“I _ did _ save your life, Archivist, _ and _ the lives of your assistants,” Leitner retorts. “I think it’s only fair that you help me in return.”

Jon just glares at him.

Leitner sighs. “Do you really think I pose that much of a danger to you?”

“Yes.” Jon’s voice is far colder than Sasha has ever heard it before. “Yes, I do.”

Leitner doesn’t respond. Then, jaw set, he slings his satchel off his shoulders and holds it out to them. “Collateral,” he says. “I’ll answer whatever questions you have, just — just hear me out after that. And give the books back when you’re done listening.”

For a moment, Jon remains where he is, still glaring. Then, stepping forward, he snatches the satchel from Leitner’s hands. _ “Fine,” _he snaps. “But we’re not doing this down here.”

Leitner’s eyes widen in alarm. “The Eye sees all within the Institute, but it cannot see the tunnels as clearly,” he says. “If we leave —”

_“When _we leave. Which is _now.”_ Jon’s tone leaves no room for argument. “We almost died down here tonight, and _Jane —” _He swallows, then soldiers on. “Look, I am _not _staying in these damn tunnels a minute longer, and that’s _final.”_

“And it’s pretty late,” Tim adds. “I guarantee you we’ll be the only ones left in the building. Not even Elias works as late as Jon does,” he adds with a slight grin.

“Thank you for that ringing endorsement, Tim,” Jon says sourly. He looks over his shoulder at Jane, his glare quickly fading. “Jane, how are you doing? Can you stand?”

Planting one hand on the floor and slowly bending one leg, Jane attempts to get off the ground, but she doesn’t lift herself far before her joints buckle. She falls back into Sasha again, huffing out a frustrated breath.

Passing the axe to Martin, Tim crouches down in front of Jane and offers her his hands. Jane takes them, then Tim stands, slowly pulling her up along with him. Jane’s grip falters, almost sending her slipping back down, but Sasha is instantly on her feet and holding Jane up; she feels surprisingly light, fragile even.

“Thanks,” Jane manages. Her face is less flushed than before, but there’s still a faint sheen of sweat on her skin. “I’m sorry; I —”

Sasha tucks her arm securely around Jane, pulling one of Jane’s limp arms across her own shoulders. “You don’t have anything to apologize for,” she murmurs. “We’ve got you. We’ll get you out of here.”

Tim shifts over to Jane’s other side, supporting her there. “All good?” he asks her; once Jane nods, he looks over at Jon and nods at him in turn.

Slinging Leitner’s satchel over one shoulder, Jon bends down to pick up Jane’s torch and the pipe from where they’d fallen on the floor. Then he turns to face Leitner, that same glare still on his face. 

Leitner just sighs and steps aside from the door. “Lead the way,” he says wearily. “I _ would _ say that I hope you know what you’re doing, but —”

“Shut _ up,” _ Jon snarls, stalking past him.

It isn’t a long journey back out of the tunnels and up to the Archives, and for that, Jane is desperately grateful. With every stumbling and half-dragged step, with every clenched fist around Tim’s or Sasha’s shoulders, with every gasping and shaking breath, she is acutely, excruciatingly reminded of how much she _ hurts. _

Her skin feels bruised and battered, still prickling with the sharp stabbing of compulsion. Her muscles are sore and aching from sudden seizures, from struggling in vain against something that couldn’t be physically fought. Her organs feel hollowed out, still bleeding from whatever blunt knife was used to carve them up. Her bones feel brittle, like they could snap at any moment, and her skull throbs with a headache that threatens to blind her.

_ But the Hive didn’t take my sight for good, _ she thinks, swallowing. _ The Eye saw to that. _

Only one pair of arms is around her now, steady and strong. Through her delirium of pain, Jane dimly realizes that Tim has lifted her up just enough to lower her down onto a couch — the couch in Jon’s office, she soon realizes; the texture of the armrest fabric rubbing against her cheek is instantly familiar.

A warm, smooth hand winds around her own, and Sasha’s face comes into view. Her face is drained and her eyes are wide and ringed with shadows, but she is _ alive, _and that is all Jane cares about right now. 

“Do you want water?” Sasha asks softly. “Or a blanket, or — or _ anything?” _

Though her mouth is dry and she’s still shivering from the chill of the tunnels, Jane hesitates. “Yes, but —” She licks her cracked lips and tries again. “Don’t leave me,” she manages. _ “Please _don’t leave —”

“I won’t,” Sasha says earnestly. She looks up at Tim. “Tim, can you —?”

“On it.” Tim ducks out the door.

Still holding her hand, Sasha sits on the edge of the couch, her back to Jane’s stomach. Jane shifts position as best she can, leaning her head a little more on the armrest as she curls up around her, her knees brushing against Sasha’s hip.

Leitner seats himself at the chair in front of Jon’s desk. He’s trying not to stare at her, and so far he’s refrained from asking any more questions, but burning curiosity radiates off him all the same. While she’s fairly certain he’s no servant to any power — or _ avatar, _if she was going to use his terminology — Jane still feels his searching gaze as keenly as that of any other belonging to the Eye.

“Do you want any tea?” she hears Martin ask from outside the door. “I know I’m going to put on the kettle for myself, at least.”

“Thank you, Martin, but… I honestly think I need something a lot stronger than tea.” Stepping into view, Jon drops the pipe and the satchel by his desk, then places the torch on his desk. Rubbing tiredly at his forehead, he glances behind him. “Tim?”

“Yeah?” Tim re-enters Jon’s office, carrying a mug in one hand and a blanket and pillow under the other arm. He passes the mug to Sasha, then takes the blanket with his free hand and shakes it out. “What is it?”

“Can you get the…?” Jon trails off, his mouth flattening. “The…”

“The…?” Tim prompts, a grin beginning to spread across his face. He nudges up Jane’s head and tucks the pillow behind it, then drapes the blanket over Jane. “Come on, Jon, what am I getting?”

“Tim, _ please _don’t make me say it,” Jon says irritably. “This day has been enough of a nightmare already without me sacrificing what little dignity I have left.”

“I mean, _ yeah, _ this day _ has _ been awful,” Tim replies. _ “But, _if you say what I think you’re going to say, it’ll make everything that’s happened mostly worth it.”

Jon closes his eyes briefly. “Tim,” he says tightly, “would you _ please _get the —?” He sighs again, defeated. “The ‘nip drawer’?”

“Right-o!” Tim says, a touch more cheerily than is probably necessary, and vanishes out the door again.

Leitner looks baffled at first, but he seems to put the pieces together when Tim returns with the basket of miniature alcohol bottles. Jane’s almost tempted to take one herself, but when Sasha passes her the mug of water, she takes a sip from that instead; the relief of the cool water flowing into her parched throat is instantaneous.

Taking one of the bottles with a murmured thank-you, Jon lets himself fall into his desk chair. He unscrews the bottle cap and takes a drink; he makes a face, but swallows anyway. “So,” he says, putting down the tiny bottle and addressing Leitner, “I’m guessing you were the reason Gertrude was buying those books.”

“Part of the reason, at least,” Leitner admits. “She’d acquired _ The Key of Solomon _ long before we met, but when she told me that _ The Seven Lamps _ and _ A Disappearance _ had turned up — on the _ Internet, _ of all places — I suggested that she procure them. Fortunately, those two proved to be a little more stable and far more useful to us than _ The Key.” _

Though Jon is no longer outright glaring, a suspicious frown remains on his face. “And why was Gertrude helping _ you?” _

“Aside from my prior experience with those books? I think she was lonely,” Leitner says. “I didn’t meet her until about six years ago, after she’d lost the last of her own assistants. Admittedly, my particular circumstances meant I wasn’t much in the way of company, but I was on her side, at the very least.”

Jon blinks, surprised. “I — I didn’t know Gertrude had assistants.”

“At least three that I know of,” Leitner says. “She didn’t mention them often, but perhaps that’s understandable. They all seem to have met fairly unpleasant ends — at least one of which I suspect Gertrude herself had a hand in orchestrating.” He sighs. “Not that I ever asked her outright. Gertrude could be… _ selective _ about what she shared with me at the best of times, and she certainly wouldn’t have told me _ that.” _

A strange look comes over Sasha’s face, but she remains silent.

Tim, sitting down on the other end of the couch with the basket in his lap, looks incredulously at Leitner. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but it sounds to me like you were _ afraid _ of Gertrude,” he says. “Are we talking about the same person here? Sure, her online shopping history was questionable, but —”

“Any reasonable person would be scared of Gertrude Robinson,” Leitner says sharply. “Even dead, she remains the most dangerous person I ever knew. Brave, brilliant, _ ruthless…” _ His voice trails off, his gaze suddenly very far away. “She was... truly extraordinary. But dangerous, all the same.”

“If she was as _ dangerous _ as you say,” Jon retorts, “then who would have dared to murder her? And _ succeeded?” _

Before Leitner can answer, Martin slips into Jon’s office with a steaming mug of tea in one hand. Glancing around the tense, silent room, he hurriedly closes the door and then hovers there awkwardly with his tea.

“Well?” Jon prompts. “Do you know who killed Gertrude or not?”

Leitner sighs heavily. “I… I believe it was Elias.”

Something black and heavy sinks in Jane’s stomach: something like dread, something like resignation, but mostly like being horribly _ right. _

Jon swallows hard; Jane guesses that he’s not especially relieved that his suspicions have been confirmed either. “Why would Elias kill her?”

“I don’t know for sure,” Leitner says wearily, “but… I can only assume he discovered that she was planning to destroy the Institute.”

_ Now _ Jon is shocked. “Gertrude was going to destroy the Institute?” he breathes. _ “Why?” _

Jane can think of at least one reason why. “Same reason the Hive tried,” she says hoarsely; the water has helped, but her throat is still scratchy and sore. “To blind the Eye.”

Leitner nods. “I suspect that might well have been the case.”

“But she served the Eye, same as us — I mean, _ sort _ of,” Martin amends. “Granted, we didn’t _ really _know about any of that until this morning… but still.” He looks down at the mug in his cupped hands, then over at Leitner. “So… why now? I mean, Gertrude worked at the Institute for decades; why didn’t she destroy it earlier?”

Leitner shrugs tiredly. “Who can say?”

_ “You _ can,” Jon says sharply. “At the very least, you must have a _ guess.” _

Leitner sighs again. “If I _ had _ to guess… timing,” he says. “Based on what little she told me… she couldn’t have done it earlier. Once she stopped the Unknowing, all that would be left was the Rite of the Watcher’s Crown. _ Then _I believe she would — would have acted.”

Sasha speaks up then. “‘The Unknowing’?” she asks. “The — the Not-Them mentioned that; what is it?”

Leitner is silent for a long time, his expression thoughtful, yet troubled. Then he addresses Jon. “How much do you know about these entities, Archivist?”

“Erm — well… they’re beings. Of great power,” Jon says slowly. “They have servants — _ avatars, _ I think you called them — and, well, there are the _ books, _but… otherwise, they can’t really exist fully in this world.”

Leitner shrugs slightly. “Close enough.” 

“Well, as Martin said, we only learned about all this just this morning,” Jon says bitingly. “I trust you’ll correct me on whatever misconceptions I apparently have.”

“Not so much correct as refine.” Leitner leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “It is true that these entities, while inexorably connected to this world, cannot physically exist in this world. At least, not as this world is currently.” He swallows. “But… there are ways to remake the world. Create it anew in the image of the entity — and thus, invite the entity in.”

“A ritual,” Jane murmurs. Despite the blanket she’s wrapped in, a chill snakes down her spine. _ If the Hive had succeeded… it wouldn’t have stopped at the Institute. _

Leitner nods. “Exactly,” he says. “Yours — well, the Corruption’s — would probably have been relatively small-scale, compared to some of the others Gertrude dealt with… but no less insidious.” He shrugs again. “But I suppose that _ is _ the way of rot. Slow and steady — and, if unchecked, fatal.”

Tim interrupts. “So, let me get this straight: Gertrude was _ stopping _these rituals?”

“And the ‘Unknowing,’ the ‘Rite of the Watcher’s Crown’... _ those _ are rituals, too?” Martin asks. “Rituals that hadn’t — or haven’t — happened yet? Rituals that Gertrude was planning to stop?”

“And if she had to wait until the Rite of the Watcher’s Crown to destroy the Institute,” Sasha finishes, “then... that must mean the Rite is the ritual for the Eye.”

Leitner almost looks impressed. “You have sharp assistants, Archivist,” he comments. “You would do well to keep them alive.”

“Unlike Gertrude, you mean?” Jon asks darkly. “Unlike _ you?” _

Leitner’s silence is an answer all its own.

Eventually, Martin speaks up. “And the Unknowing is the ritual for…?”

“The Stranger,” Leitner says grimly. “The uncanny, the familiar made unfamiliar. Pasteboard masks with nothing behind them. It’s an entity whose particular mode of inscrutability is… something of a frustration for those belonging to the Eye.”

“So… it warps your perception of reality,” Jon says slowly. “Makes you doubt your own sanity.”

“Not quite,” Leitner corrects him. “What you’re speaking of is more the domain of the Spiral: the fooling of the senses, the vivid experience of what is not there or even real. Where the Spiral is unreality, the Stranger is... just real enough. But, still not _ quite _ real.”

_ “Michael,” _ Sasha says suddenly. “Doors where... no doors ever were.”

“‘Michael’?” For a moment, Leitner looks confused, then a strange realization sparks in his eyes. “That _ is _what the Distortion is calling itself these days, isn’t it?” he remarks. “Yes, that’s a manifestation of the Spiral. Hard to tell if it’s an avatar or not, but it seems to have a bit more agency than creatures like the Not-Them.”

“Which is a manifestation of the Stranger,” Sasha says. “I… remember Gertrude mentioning that in the tape we —”

“You have her tapes?” Leitner asks eagerly. When Sasha nods, he continues. “What about files, notes — _ anything _written?”

“Nothing like that, unfortunately; otherwise, we would have been able to make more sense of the tapes earlier,” Jon says. “But that was all that the police — well, Martin, actually — found with her body.”

“Damn.” Leitner instantly deflates. “That… makes what I’m about to ask of you a great deal more difficult.”

“This ought to be good,” Jon mutters, crossing his arms.

Leitner straightens back up in his seat. “Gertrude was nothing if not thorough,” he says. “She spent years chasing down every scrap of information to be found about those rituals, and the Unknowing was no different. If those files weren’t in the tunnels, and if they’re not here either, then Elias must have taken them when he killed her.” He looks Jon dead in the eye. “If we’re going to finish what she started, we need to get into Elias’ office and get her files back.”

“Wait, _ ‘we’?” _ Jon echoes incredulously. “You’re the one who can — who can _ change _ the structure of the building and — and turn invisible; what’s been stopping _ you _ from going up there yourself?”

“A very practical concern for my own life,” Leitner retorts. “I shouldn’t have to tell you how dangerous Elias is, Archivist. He _ killed Gertrude — _ even with those books, what chance would _ I _ stand against _ him?” _

“Then what chance do any of _ us _have?” Jon demands. “I’m hardly going to risk all of our lives all over again —”

“I mean,” Martin ventures, “there _ is _something to be said for safety in numbers —”

Jon narrows his eyes. “Martin, _ please _don’t tell me you actually agree with him.”

“Well, maybe I do, Jon!” Martin exclaims. “To — to _some _extent, anyway,” he adds hastily. “Look, if Elias really is _that _dangerous, and — and if the Unknowing — I mean, if _that _happens, that’s going to be dangerous for _literally_ _everyone in the world,_ so…” He throws up his hands. “The way I see it, Leitner isn’t the biggest threat right now!”

“Finally: a voice of reason,” Leitner says dryly. “If I were you, I’d listen to him, Archivist.”

“Don’t think I’m saying that you’re the good guy, because that could not be _ farther _ from what I’m getting at,” Martin warns, his voice surprisingly steely. “What I’m _ actually _trying to say is, we have a common enemy here. And that terrible things are going to happen if that enemy isn’t somehow stopped.”

Leitner sighs. “Believe me, I am more than aware of my own failings,” he says. He looks back at Jon, who is once again glowering at him. “I’ve spent the past twenty years trying to learn from my mistakes, Archivist. And if there’s anything I can do to stop the Stranger or _ any _ of those entities from taking further root in this world —”

“There _ was _ something you could have done,” Jon snaps. “Destroying those books instead of — of _ collecting _them.” His fingers are digging into his arms, the knuckles of his hands turning white. “Who needs a ritual when you have an entire library of terrors just waiting to be unleashed upon the world?”

“You must understand, Archivist,” Leitner says, a strangely pleading note in his voice. “Back then, I believed they were simply _books:_ horrifying and powerful, yes, but with rules, limits that could be charted, used to keep them in check.” He swallows. “But I — I was a fool. I had no idea what forces lay behind them, or that they had other servants that might seek them out. Not until it was far too late.”

Jon’s still glaring at Leitner, but his gaze is wavering with an emotion that Jane can’t quite place. “Well,” he says bitterly. “It’s been far too late for both of us.”

Leitner stares back at Jon, seemingly at a loss for words. Then: “I — I understand, Archivist,” he says quietly. Even as old as he is, he suddenly seems immeasurably more haggard and weary. “I had hoped you would help, but… I understand if you want nothing to do with me.”

“I didn’t say that,” Jon says. His tone is still resentful, but his expression is resigned. “We’re all in this now, however much we don’t want to be. And…” He sighs. “As much as I hate this, I don’t think I _ can _ choose anything else and live with that. Not with so much at stake.”

After a moment, Leitner nods. “I suppose that’s as good an outcome as I was ever going to get,” he says, standing. “Now: how would one get into Elias’ office?”

Uncrossing his arms, Jon opens his desk drawer and, after a few moments of searching, retrieves a small brass key. “Spare key,” he explains. “Found it hidden above his portrait in the hallway, back when I was trying to get into his office to get the key to the tunnels.” He tosses it to Leitner. “Hopefully, he hasn’t changed the lock.”

“I hope so as well.” Leitner pockets the key. “And where is his office?”

Jon opens his mouth and then closes it, a frown suddenly creasing his brow. Tim and Martin exchange an equally clueless glance, but neither of them say anything.

Sasha breaks the silence. “I can take you there.” 

Jane chokes on her water, her throat seizing up with sudden dread. _ No — no, no, _no — 

_ “Sasha,” _Jon says, just as aghast. “You don’t —”

“Out of all of us, I’ve been to Elias’ office most recently,” Sasha says. Her voice wavers slightly, but her gaze is steady. “I know how to get there; I know what it looks like inside. I can help Leitner look for the files.” She exhales. “I — I _ want _ to help. I mean, if the alternative is a world full of — of _ things _like the Not-Them, then —”

Jane’s hands are shaking, but she somehow manages to put the now-empty mug on the floor and grab for Sasha’s hands. “Sasha, _ please —” _she begs.

“I won’t be gone long.” For a moment, Sasha’s fingers curl around hers in a familiar, comforting way, but then they begin to slacken. “I’ll be back, Jane; I’m not leaving you —”

“Then don’t leave me _ now.” _Panic is clawing at Jane’s chest, and she’s not sure if it’s fear of Elias, fear for Sasha, or some other feeling even more terrifying than those. “Sasha, I can’t —”

_ “Jane.” _Leaning over, Sasha wraps her arms around her, one of her soft, warm hands threading through the hair at the back of Jane’s skull. “Jane,” she repeats, so softly Jane can barely hear her. “I’ll be fine. So will you.”

Jane squeezes her eyes shut, sudden tears burning behind her eyelids. It’s not fear she’s feeling, not anymore — she hasn’t lost Sasha yet, but she’s already grieving as if she has, the surety of the loss to come lancing her heart with a pain far sharper than what she endured resisting the Hive.

_ I would have been lost without you, _ she wants to say. _ Jon ripped away the Hive, tore it out of me for good, but I was ready to bleed out without it. Let it fester in my open wounds, let the loneliness kill me rather than live with the pain of being alone in my body again. But you put your hands where my soul bled and said — _

_ — I love you. _

It’s the first thing she remembers, after the Hive’s hold over her had broken like a fever. And it’s the last thing she’d ever forget.

Jane wants so badly to say it back — the only thing she could say that might make Sasha stay with her — but her throat is as tight as a vise, barely enough for air.

She feels Sasha’s arms slipping away from her, then her weight lifting from the edge of the couch as she stands up. Though she feels the tears beginning to bleed into her eyelashes, Jane still can’t bear to open her eyes.

“Would you mind giving me my satchel, Archivist?” Leitner asks. “And that pipe, too, I suppose,” he adds thoughtfully. “If the key doesn’t work, it would be useful to have something to break the lock with.”

There’s a faint rustling, and the brief scraping of metal on wood. “I suppose you’re going to be using those books,” Jon states flatly.

_ “A Disappearance, _at least. I’m taking every precaution,” Leitner says. “You, ah — Sasha, was it?” Another rustle, followed by the rasp of paper. “If you’re so inclined.”

A pause. “I’ll pass,” Sasha finally says. “Jumpers are one thing, but I’d rather not _ I _disappear because of a book.”

“As you wish,” Leitner says simply, but to Jane’s ears, it sounds more like a warning. “Give me a moment.” 

At first, Jane doesn’t hear anything. Then someone gasps and someone else bites back a muttered curse.

“Let’s be off.” At the sound of Leitner’s voice so suddenly close, Jane gives a start. Her eyes fly open, only to see the door to Jon’s office opening by itself. “You first.”

Sasha just nods. Her gaze is a little less certain than before, but she already has the pipe and the spare torch in her hands, and she’s gripping both tightly. With a final, almost guilty glance at Jane, she walks out of Jon’s office.

When the door closes behind her, Jane finally lets the tears course down her cheeks.

Breaking into Artifact Storage after hours had been nerve-wracking enough, even with Jane and Jon and Tim and Martin by her side, but sneaking up to Elias’ office without any of them is undeniably worse. Every so often, Sasha hears a creak of a floorboard or the faint scuffing of shoes behind her, and every time, she almost jumps out of her skin before remembering that she’s not _ exactly _alone — but, to anyone watching her, she might as well be.

_ Or any_thing _ watching, _she amends, the hair on the back of her neck standing up at the thought. The portraits of Institute heads lining the hallway to Elias’ office haven’t gotten any less unsettling since the last time she was here, and now that she’s aware of the Institute’s affiliation with the Eye, Sasha’s more wary of the painted rows of flat, lifeless eyes than ever.

The door to Elias’ office stands before her. Before Sasha can free up one of her hands to try the doorknob, there’s a shift in the air beside her, followed by the _ click _of a key in the lock, and the door swings open. Sasha turns on the torch and shines it over the threshold; the lights are off, and as far as she can tell, there’s no one there.

Sasha wastes no time stepping inside and shutting the door behind her — and presumably Leitner, even though she still can’t see him. She casts the beam of the torch around the room; aside from the heavy-looking drapes drawn over the windows, it looks much the same as she remembers it: the desk, the shelves, the peculiar group portrait.

Crossing over the elaborately patterned rug on the floor, Sasha goes to Elias’ desk. She leaves the pipe on the desk, and, adjusting her grip on the torch, she opens up the center drawer. Aside from a small sectioned tray of keys, the contents are disappointingly standard: even if the office supplies within are undoubtedly more high-end than the ones in her own desk. Sasha takes a moment to examine the labels attached to the keys, but all of them seem to go to different places within the Institute: nothing unusual about that.

As one of the drawers on the left opens, Leitner speaks, his voice low and cautious. “Am I correct in assuming you’ve had an encounter with one of the books from my library?”

For a moment, Sasha wonders how he guessed at that, and then she remembers why she refused to read _ A Disappearance. _ “Um… yes.” She closes the center drawer and moves on to one of the drawers on the right, the middle of the three. “At least, I think it was. It didn’t have your bookplate when it first came to Artifact Storage, but it definitely had _ a _bookplate at some point.”

“Hmm.” The drawer on the left closes, and the drawer below it opens; evidently, Leitner has found nothing useful. “Out of curiosity, what was the title?”

“It didn’t have one.” While there are files in the drawer she’s opened, they look too uniform and neatly labeled to have come from the Archives, so Sasha closes that drawer and goes to the one above it. “It was a — a scrapbook, of sorts. Green velvet cover, ribbon spine. It… played with your memory. If you wrote something in there, you’d forget about some part of it.” 

“Ah. That_ does _ sound familiar.” The second drawer Leitner opens closes as well. “Domingo Márquez, one of my assistants, dubbed that one _ El Recuerdo: _ the memory, or the memento. Relatively harmless, compared to others in my library, but what it makes you forget, it also erases from physical reality, for a time.” The third drawer on the left opens; this one also seems to be full of files, but a few slide out of the drawer, seemingly on their own, as Leitner apparently examines them. “As I recall, Domingo classified it as falling under the domain of _ Esmentiras, _the Spiral.”

_ The Spiral. Michael’s entity. _ Sasha opens the top drawer on the right, but only finds more neatly organized office supplies. _ If I’d been touched by the Spiral, that — that might explain why Michael reached out to me first... _

_ … but it’s not the only explanation. _

“You seem to be familiar with the Spiral and its manifestations,” she says carefully, closing the drawer and turning to face where she assumes Leitner to be. “Interesting how the Distortion seems to be familiar with the Institute as well.”

On the left side of the desk, the files abruptly stop shuffling around.

It’s enough to confirm her suspicions. “The Distortion — _ Michael —” _Sasha exhales shakily. “He was one of Gertrude’s assistants, wasn’t he?”

A heavy sigh. “I… suspect so, yes,” Leitner says reluctantly.

_ “‘Suspect’?” _Sasha echoes incredulously, remembering the despairing anger in Michael’s eyes as he raged against the Archivist. “Do you know what happened to him or not?”

“I’m afraid I don’t.” The files are swept off of the desk and back into the drawer, which closes with a little more force than probably necessary. “Like I said before, Gertrude was not an especially forthcoming sort.”

“You must know_ something,” _ Sasha insists. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t —”

“Whatever happened to the boy has nothing to do with what we are here to do,” Leitner says sharply. “We should be focusing on more important matters, not —”

“Just tell me what you know!” Sasha snaps. Realizing too late how loud that had come out, she quickly lowers her voice. _ “Please. _ It’s important to _ me.” _

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence from the left side of the desk. Then: “When Gertrude first broached the subject of the rituals with me — once she’d realized that preparations for the Unknowing were underway — I was curious about what other rituals she’d stopped.” Leitner lets out a weary half-laugh. _ “Five. _ I don’t know _ how _ she managed it, but thanks to her intervention, _ five _rituals had collapsed. Failed.” He pauses. “The last of those was one she called the Great Twisting. The ritual of the Spiral.”

Sasha swallows. “So… you think what happened to Michael had something to do with — with _ whatever _Gertrude did to stop the ritual,” she says quietly.

“It seems to be the most likely possibility, yes,” Leitner says slowly. “I… cannot offer more than that.” 

Sasha nods dully, but something in her heart suddenly aches for Michael — Michael, Gertrude’s assistant; Michael, the Distortion; and every Michael in between. _ No wonder he didn’t want to let me leave. Let me sacrifice myself for another Archivist. _

_ He didn’t want me to be like him. _

Exhaling, Sasha pushes all of that to the back of her mind for now. “Nothing in those drawers?” she asks, changing the subject. 

“Nothing,” Leitner says grimly. “I suppose it would be too much to hope that Elias would hide them in an obvious place.”

“Well, there’s still one more drawer,” Sasha says, crouching down and gripping the handle of the lowest, last drawer on the right. “We might get lucky.” As she speaks, she pulls on the drawer.

The drawer doesn’t open.

Frowning, Sasha trains the torch beam on the drawer. Though the drawer is made of the same polished mahogany as the rest of the desk, its handle is different. Unlike the others — wrought of elegantly curved brass, clearly original to the desk — this handle is considerably newer, made of stainless steel and meant to be turned rather than pulled. It also has a small keypad next to it.

_ Well. I guess that means we’re on the right track. _ Sasha looks up at Leitner a split-second before realizing that she _ still _ can’t see Leitner. “I suppose Gertrude never mentioned when Elias’ birthday was,” she remarks dryly.

“Decidedly not,” Leitner replies. “But if it’s a year you’re looking for, how about this one?” 

There’s a softly metallic tapping above her and Sasha follows the sound with her torch beam. The group portrait hanging behind Elias’ desk is almost directly over her, but even at this angle, she can still read the etched placard set into the frame: _ The Benefactors — 1818. _

_ A bit obvious, but… worth a shot. _ Switching the torch to her off hand, Sasha carefully punches the number into the keypad. There’s a _ click _after the last eight, and she hooks her fingers around the handle and turns it.

The drawer pops open, but doesn’t slide out any further. Sasha gives the handle another tug and the drawer comes out the rest of the way; a few bent and battered file folders — probably what jammed the drawer in the first place — stick out of a box inside.

Sasha looks over the file numbers on the labels — 0131910, 9950503, and a bizarrely numbered one, 376-U — but judging by the yellowing labels and the faded type, none of the files are of recent cases. Reaching inside the drawer, she lifts out the box and holds it up to where she thinks Leitner is. “Do these look familiar?”

“Not these specifically... but they’re definitely Gertrude’s.” The box of files shifts onto the desk. “Is there anything else in there?”

Sasha trains the torch beam inside the drawer. There’s another, smaller cardboard box inside, and she pulls it forward to see that it’s full of tapes. Like the ones downstairs on her desk, these are sparsely labeled; the only recognizable case number she sees is 0141010. There’s a tape recorder as well, a little older and more battered than the one in Jon’s office, lying half-buried in the tapes.

As Sasha digs her fingers around the edge of the box to pull it out of the drawer, there’s a muffled _ click, _ and the tape within the recorder starts whirring.

A hand comes down on her wrist, jerking her hand back. “What did you do?” Leitner demands, but there’s a tremor in his voice.

“I didn’t —” Sasha starts to retort, but her voice trails off when she realizes that she can _ see _ the wiry, weathered hand gripping her wrist. _ “Wait. _ Why can I —?”

Leitner abruptly lets go of her, bringing his hand up to his face; even outside of the torch’s beam, Sasha can see his expression of alarm. “It wore off,” he says, stunned. _ “A Disappearance _ doesn’t — not that quickly _ —” _He stops suddenly.

Then Sasha hears it: footsteps echoing faintly down the hallway.

The dusty clock on the wall of Jon’s office ticks far too loudly in the tense silence, to say nothing of how slowly it’s running. It’s been barely five minutes since Sasha and Leitner left, but Jane swears she’s been staring at the clock for much longer than that.

_ Has it been too long? I think it’s been too long. _ She pulls the blanket a little tighter around herself, but cold dread is still creeping over her. _ She shouldn’t have gone. I should have gone with her; Jon should have gone with her — _

_ — Jon should have gone _ instead _ of her. _

Jane finally looks away from the clock. Jon is slouching in his seat, his elbows propped on the desk with his chin resting on his balled fists. He’s staring in the vague direction of the tiny, and now empty, alcohol bottle on his desk, but his vacant gaze is deeply troubled.

Martin, now sitting in Leitner’s vacated seat in front of the desk, breaks the silence. “We should have gone with them,” he says, more to himself than anyone else.

“We could have,” Tim agrees, leaning back against the couch and stretching his legs out. “But as much as I love the thought of us having a little team bonding exercise of tearing apart Elias’ office to find murder evidence, it would probably be better if we didn’t let Elias know quite _ that _ obviously that we were onto him. _ Especially _considering,” he adds dryly, “the whole... murder thing.”

“I mean — _ yeah? _ Probably. But…” Martin stops, frowning. “Isn’t the ‘murder thing’ even _ more _ reason to not… split the party, for lack of a better term? So Elias _ can’t _pick us off one by one?”

“Okay, you _might _have me there,” Tim concedes. Then he grins. “But, counterpoint: you’re a _nerd.”_

“You understood what I was saying, though!” Martin says crossly. “And _ you’re _ one to talk, calling _ me _ a nerd; you were _ instantly _on board when I floated the idea of me running a homebrew campaign just for the Archives staff. Granted,” he adds, “that was mostly me desperately trying to connect with my new coworkers, but —”

“Hey: I’m_ still _on board if you ever want to make it happen.” Tim’s grin turns wistful. “Seems weird to think about those early days in the Archives now,” he comments. “Jon being promoted out of the blue, Sasha and me getting uprooted from Research along with him, you coming in from the library and all of us getting to know you…” He shrugs. “Simpler times, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Martin says quietly. “Just because things were simpler didn’t mean they were safer, though.”

Jon sighs heavily, still staring into space.

Martin glances over. “Jon? Are you… okay?” he ventures, then winces. “I mean, ‘okay’ is pretty subjective at this point, but… you’ve been awfully quiet since —”

“I should have gone with them.” Jon’s voice is ragged and regretful. “I — I should have gone with _ him. _Not Sasha.”

“Why didn’t you?” Jane doesn’t realize until the words have left her mouth how _ accusing _she sounds. 

Jon doesn’t flinch at her acerbic tone, but his gaze gets a little less distant and a little more despondent. “I — I don’t know,” he says. “I just — I don’t _ know. _Just when I thought —” He stops, clearly agitated now.

Martin leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk in an unconscious mirroring of Jon. “What were you thinking?” he asks gently.

Jon swallows. “I — I used to think I knew how the world worked,” he says. “There… _ were _ supernatural things, but — but they were _ rare: _ isolated, exaggerated, vastly outnumbered by wild tales or — or drunken imaginings. But everything that’s happened today has… done a _ lot _ to disprove that particularly narrow worldview of mine.” He sighs again, more harshly this time. “‘More things in heaven and earth’... I don’t know how much else Elias has been hiding from us, but he wasn’t completely lying about _ that.” _ He laughs humorlessly. “Except those _ things _ are definitely _ not _heavenly. And they’re trying to make this earth a hell. 

“And _Jurgen Leitner —” _Jon stops again, his mouth flattening into a thin line. His gaze is fully focused now, but no less troubled than before. “I thought I knew where _he _fit in, in how I used to think about the world. I used to think he wasn’t truly human, just… evil incarnate. Him _and _those books that bore his name. _But —”_ he makes to throw up his hands, but they just fall limply on the desk before him “— even _he _wasn’t who I thought he was. Thoughtless, selfish, prideful: yes. But… not _evil.”_ Jon exhales wearily. “Just a pathetic, lonely old man. Hardly the bogeyman I’d imagined since childhood —”

_ “‘Childhood’?” _Martin echoes, his eyes suddenly wide and horrified. “Jon, what — what do you mean by that?”

Jon instantly stills. A strange, caught-out — no, _ vulnerable — _ expression is on his face: an expression that is suddenly, strikingly familiar to Jane. _ What was it he’d said, that time in the tunnels, _ she thinks, _ when I asked him what he knew about Leitners? _

_ Not enough — and far too much. _

“You’ve read one,” Jane says, the dreadful realization dawning on her. “One of Leitner’s books.”

For a moment, Jon just stares at her. Then he brings a shaking hand up to his mouth, as if afraid of what might come out, and swallows. “Not... all the way through,” he says, almost too low for Jane to hear. “That’s — that’s the _ only _ reason I’m still —”

Martin reaches out and takes Jon’s other hand. “You don’t have to tell us if you don’t want to,” he says, both firm and gentle. “If it’s too painful to remember, especially with everything that’s happened —”

Jon’s already shaking his head. “No, I — I should… get it on the record, at least. Not tonight, but… at some point.” He drops his hand from his face, but he still looks wretched. “I mean, that’s — it’s what first made me realize that there are things that _ can’t _ be explained away in rational terms, no matter how much I _ desperately _ wanted to believe that none of it could be real. I was scared then, and I’ve only gotten _ more _ scared since then, but I still — I mean, it’s why I work here. At the Institute.” He lets out a shuddering breath somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “I — I can’t exactly pretend it never happened when it’s what brought me here. Especially not _ now.” _

Tim stands up and slowly approaches Jon’s desk. “Well,” he says, quiet, but resolved, “whenever you want to make your statement… I’ll be the next one in line.”

Jon frowns. “What do you —?” Then he blinks, a sudden, awful awareness in his gaze. _ “Oh.” _

“... Yeah.” Tim crosses his arms, not quite meeting Jon’s eyes. “I mean… you _ did _want to know why I changed career paths, way back when you were suspecting all of us of murder, so —” He shrugs.

“I — yes, I… suppose I did.” Jon looks a little ashamed. “Again, I… I’m sorry about all that —”

“Stop beating yourself up, Jon,” Tim interrupts, but not unkindly. “You’ve more than made up for it since then. And besides,” he adds, “we know now who _ really _ murdered Gertrude, so that’s —”

_ “— worrying,” _ Martin interrupts. “I mean, him murdering Gertrude is bad enough, but… who knows what _ else _ Elias has done, or what he plans to do?” He looks around at all of them, the unease evident in his eyes. “And more importantly, how are we going to stop him from hurting anyone else?”

Jane glances up at the clock. A few more minutes have passed, but she still hears nothing — nothing outside Jon’s office door, nothing on the stairs down to the Archives — but the incessant, implacable sound of time ticking away, running down.

_ They should be back by now. _ That familiar chill is settling over her, soaking through the warmth of the blanket and burrowing deep beneath her skin, where the itch of the Hive used to be. _ They should be back. Why aren’t they back? _

“We stop him however we have to.” Jane lets the useless blanket slip off her shoulders as she grips the arm of the couch and slowly, shakily pushes herself out of her seat. “We stop him _ now.” _

“Jane, what —?” Tim turns around, then gives a start when he realizes she’s almost standing. “Are you — should you really be moving right now?” he asks doubtfully. “Because you’re not looking all that —”

“Doesn’t matter,” Jane manages through gritted teeth; pain is shooting up her legs, her spine, her neck with every small step she takes towards the door, but she keeps going. “Sasha needs our help. And Elias needs to —”

“— and we _ will _help her,” Martin says. “And stop Elias, somehow. But you can’t help Sasha if you’re —”

_ “I don’t care,” _ Jane snaps, rounding on Martin. “I don’t care about me; I care about _ her. _ You’re not going up there and leaving me behind,” she snaps. “I _ need _to help her. I need to —”

_ “Jane —” _ Jon’s tone is somewhere between warning and alarmed.“I… don’t think we’re going anywhere at the moment.”

Martin and Tim look past Jane, and both of their faces drain of color. Ignoring the screaming of her muscles at all her sudden movements, Jane whirls back around.

The door to Jon’s office is yellow.

_ Elias. _ All of the breath leaves Sasha’s lungs in an instant. _ How is — _ why _ is he here? Does he know we’re here? And — _

She doesn’t want to ask herself that last question, but it’s in her mind all the same: _ What will he do if — _ when _ he finds us? _

For a brief moment of blind panic, she’s almost tempted to stand up and shine the torch around the room, search for some other way out, but Sasha knows they’re trapped. Aside from the shrouded windows and the single door out, Elias’ office is sealed tighter than a tomb.

Clicking her torch off, Sasha glances up at Leitner; though she can see him now, he’s still no more than a shadow in the sudden gloom. “What can we do?” she whispers, trying not to let her terror show. _ “The Seven Lamps — _have you ever tried using it outside of —?”

“I told you before: it’s dangerous to use _ The Seven Lamps _ without adequate preparation and time, and we have neither of those.” Leitner opens up his satchel, but what he takes out is not the bulky book bound in green cloth, but the thin pamphlet. “And I don’t dare to read from _ A Disappearance _ again so soon, but _ you, _on the other hand —”

_ “No,” _Sasha protests, trying to get to her feet. “I’m not going to —”

Ignoring her, Leitner takes her torch, tossing it aside, and thrusts the pamphlet into her hands, forcing her back down onto the floor. “Two words, at _ most,” _he instructs. “Now: hide, read, and then get out of here as quickly as you can.”

Sasha tries to shove it back at him. “I said, _ no —” _

The footsteps stop in front of the door. The lock _ clicks. _

_ “Do it.” _Face grim, Leitner hefts the box of tapes up out of the drawer, grabbing the recorder as he does, then he shuts the drawer with his foot and steps around her.

And then the door opens and the lights snap on, blindingly bright.

Stifling a gasp, Sasha instinctively shifts behind Elias’ desk. Ducking her head, she slides into the pocket of darkness under the desk as quietly as she can, getting herself completely out of sight of the door.

“... Well.” The door closes again with another _ click. _ “This _ is _a surprise.”

Something _ thuds _down on top of the desk, followed by a slight scraping of metal against wood. Sasha winces.

Elias sighs. “Please, put down the pipe. I can’t have you damaging Institute property.” He almost sounds bored, if not for the icy edge to his voice. “And _ do _ get rid of that satchel while you’re at it.”

The pipe clatters back on the desk, but Sasha’s expecting the noise this time and keeps still. “I suppose it was useless to try and destroy it,” Leitner says, defeated. There’s a rustle of fabric, and then another _ thud _on the floor beside the desk. “You already knew I was here.”

“Oh, I don’t need _tapes _to inform me of those matters,” Elias says dismissively. “I have my own ways of keeping an eye on my Institute. Although _you, _Jurgen Leitner, have eluded my gaze for quite some time.” He laughs softly, and goosebumps break out on Sasha’s skin at the sound. “Even after all this time wondering who Gertrude’s co-conspirator could be, I never would have guessed it to be _you.”_

“How _ did _you know I was here, then?” Leitner asks tentatively.

“I didn’t at first. Between the tunnels and your former ally in the Archives, you’ve been frustratingly well-hidden from me.” Measured footsteps pace over the carpet, drawing closer to the desk. “But Jon is not, and he failed to take the same precautions I’m sure you took for granted with Gertrude.”

Sasha swallows, remembering Leitner’s insistence that they stay in the tunnels — and Jon’s refusal. _ If Elias couldn’t see us down there, then — _ A new, horrible realization overtakes her, and she unconsciously grips _ A Disappearance _ a little tighter. _ Then that means — that means Elias might know _I’m —

“Jon’s not here with you, is he?” Elias muses. “Did he _ really _just give you the spare key to my office and tell you to help yourself while he cowers in the basement?” He sighs again, disdainful. “I know Jon’s manners leave something to be desired, but this is rude even for him.”

“I’m not here for any of _ your _ secrets — although I’m sure you have many hidden here,” Leitner retorts, but his voice, once so aloof and authoritative, is beginning to shake. “I’m here for Gertrude’s files. The ones _ you _took from her.”

“So it seems.” The footsteps stop at the desk; above her, Sasha hears papers flip and rustle. “Planning a little light arson, are we, Jurgen?”

“It’s not _ just _about the Eye,” Leitner says. “The Stranger —”

“I’m aware.” There’s a faint _ swish _ of fabric, followed by two faintly metallic _ clinks _on top of the desk. “What is it they’re calling it? ‘The Unknowing’?” Elias laughs again. “For all their showmanship, creativity was never their forte.”

“You’re not taking this seriously!” Leitner objects, but the tremor of fear in his voice has only intensified.

“Oh, absolutely not,” Elias says lightly. There’s another rustling of fabric: subtle, but more sustained. “Nevertheless, we _ will _ stop it. _ Without _your help, I think.”

Leitner sucks in a shallow breath. “Elias, _ please — _think about this —”

“I already have.” The rustling stops. “If Jon is to reach his full potential, he’ll need to fly the nest at some point. Go out and see the world for himself.”

“He might _ die.” _ Leitner’s voice cracks on the final word. “Or worse —”

“It will be worse, for a time.” The metal pipe rakes overhead again, and something about the deliberateness of how it scrapes against the wood makes Sasha’s blood run strangely cold. “But he’ll thank me once all is said and done.”

_ “Elias,” _Leitner begs, “it doesn’t have to be like —”

His plea is abruptly cut off by a sudden, sickening _ crack: _ not loud, but dull and wet. Something large and heavy crumples on the floor with a _ thud _ and a strangled cry, and Sasha realizes too late that it’s _ Leitner. _

Then there comes a low exhalation that sounds more like a snarl, and Elias once again brings the pipe down, with the same awful, flesh-splitting, bone-breaking _ crack _ as before. And he does it again. And again. And _ again. _

Sasha can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t _ think _ over the terrible _ crack _ of the pipe and the pounding of blood rushing through her ears. _ I’m going to die. Leitner’s going to die, and I’m going to die, too, if I don’t do _something — 

Her gaze flicks down at _ A Disappearance, _ almost crumpling in her white-knuckled grasp. _ No, _ she wants to tell herself. _ I shouldn’t read it; I _ know _ I shouldn’t. But — _ She doesn’t want to think about it, and _ still, _ she is. _ But I might not — _

A single, scared whimper crawls out of her throat. Sasha claps a hand over her mouth too late.

And just like that, everything stills. Somewhere, _ something _ — _ blood, it’s blood, _ Sasha knows, her thoughts running away from her in her wild terror, _ it’s Leitner’s blood — _drips slowly onto the floor, too loud in the sudden, ghastly silence. 

And above her, the tape recorder still whirs away.

Elias speaks then, and a chill shoots down Sasha’s spine at the sheer _ menace _ running through his voice. _ “Well,” _he says. “It would seem you’re not alone up here after all.”

_ “No —” _ Sasha gives a start upon hearing Leitner’s voice: _ barely _a voice, more of an incoherent moan. “No, I’m —”

_ “Please,” _ Elias cuts him off. _ “Don’t _insult me by lying. It won’t do you much good anyway.”

Leitner groans, low and labored. His breathing is coming shorter and sharper, almost like he’s crying, and Sasha realizes as her vision swims that she’s on the verge of tears as well.

The pipe clatters on the floor, some distance away from the desk. “I’ll admit: I may have overreacted, here.” Elias sighs, short and curt. “So: let’s try this again. Do it the civilized way this time.”

_ “Don’t —” _Leitner pleads.

“‘Don’t’?” Elias echoes witheringly. “Jurgen, please. You have no way to stop me, and _ you know it.” _

At his words, Sasha’s skin suddenly prickles, flaring with thousands of pins and needles. And she knows then, with dreadful certainty, what Elias is about to do.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she fumbles with _ A Disappearance, _ thumbing it open as best she can without looking at it too closely. _ I need to do this, _ she tries to insist to herself. _ I need to do this. It’s too late for Leitner — probably too late for me — but I need to try to get out of here; I need to warn — _

Before she can change her mind, Sasha looks down at the first page. A word jumps out at her immediately — _ December, _ the dark type standing out starkly against the cream-colored paper _ — _and she opens her mouth, inhaling shakily.

Elias speaks first. “Whoever you are, wherever you’re hiding, come out. _ Now.” _

Without a second thought, Sasha crawls out from under the desk, _ A Disappearance _forgotten on the floor. As she stands, she almost wonders why she was even hiding in the first place.

It isn’t until she faces him — _ him _with his bright and breathtakingly cold eyes boring into her, down into the very marrow of her bones — that Sasha realizes, a wave of horror washing over her, what she’s done.

_ What _ he _ did to me. _

Elias smiles. “There you are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**CW:** Pipe bludgeoning, intentional and malicious mind control._
> 
> The files mentioned — Cases #0131910, #9950503, and #376-U — are [MAG 83: Drawing a Blank](https://the-magnus-archives.fandom.com/wiki/MAG_83:_Drawing_A_Blank), [MAG 93: Contaminant](https://the-magnus-archives.fandom.com/wiki/MAG_93:_Contaminant), and [MAG 85: Upon the Stair](https://the-magnus-archives.fandom.com/wiki/MAG_85:_Upon_the_Stair), respectively. The tape, Case #0141010, is [MAG 87: The Uncanny Valley](https://the-magnus-archives.fandom.com/wiki/MAG_87:_The_Uncanny_Valley).
> 
> The [wiki](https://the-magnus-archives.fandom.com/wiki/Rituals) was also a huge help when counting up the number of rituals that Gertrude had stopped. I didn't include the Dark's ritual in that count, because I figured that Jurgen and Gertrude probably would have discussed rituals well before the Extinguished Sun occurred in 2015, so the five rituals were those of the Desolation (Gertrude bound herself to Agnes sometime after 2002, and Agnes died in 2006), the Lonely ([tentatively underway around the time of the _Daedalus_ launch, so 2007ish](https://numinousnic.tumblr.com/post/190895424807/adhdarchivist-flo-nelja-adhdarchivist-this)), the Buried (2008), the Flesh (also 2008), and, of course, the Spiral (sometime between 2009 and 2011).
> 
> Unlike _[The Seven Lamps of Architecture](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Seven_Lamps_of_Architecture),_ there's no real-world analogue for _A Disappearance,_ so my personal headcanon is that it's about/related to [the disappearance of American socialite and heiress Dorothy Arnold](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Disappearance_of_Dorothy_Arnold) in December 1910 (since it's mentioned in [MAG 66: Held in Customs](https://snarp.github.io/magnus_archives_transcripts/episode/066.html) that the pamphlet was published in 1910. Also, the last place Arnold was seen was just outside a bookstore).
> 
> (There's also a _Moby-Dick_ reference in this chapter, and if you can spot it, you're just as nerdy as me. Or potentially _more_ nerdy!)
> 
> One more chapter, folks! While I hope it won't take me a month to write, I guarantee you it'll be out by the time Season 5 premieres!


	12. The Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regarding Elias Bouchard’s final ploy, and the fates of Sasha James and Jane Prentiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! This chapter _did_ actually end up taking an entire month, but considering preventative measures for a global pandemic were upending my work schedule (and life in general) every other day, I'm honestly not surprised. But I _am_ getting this posted before S5 hits, as promised, so I can take comfort in that.
> 
> Also, MAJOR SHOUT-OUTS to [tenworms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenworms/pseuds/tenworms), [pyrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrites/pseuds/pyrites), and Compassion for reading this fic and leaving just the loveliest comments on every single chapter. You all are rock stars and your amazing support of this fic really kept me going through this hell month (and also kicked my ass in gear to finish this chapter before the end of said hell month!)
> 
> And now, without further ado... _the final chapter_.
> 
> _ **Content warnings for this chapter are in the end notes.** _

The yellow door cracks open with a piercingly high creak. Several elongated, many-jointed fingers wrap around the edge of the door, sharp nails clicking against what looks like wood, followed by a head topped with spiraling yellow curls and perched on a neck that seems to crane a little _ too _far out from behind the door.

The being that Sasha calls _ Michael _grins at them, its mouth a little too wide for its round face. “Knock, knock, Archivist.”

Jane takes an involuntary step back from the door, bumping into Martin. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Tim’s gaze dart frantically around the room; Jane realizes then that although Tim had passed off the axe to Martin in the tunnels, it seems as though Martin had left the axe outside of Jon’s office when making himself tea. _ Not that an axe would probably do much to it… but _still.

In stark contrast to the fear he’d shown when facing Michael earlier, Jon just looks annoyed. “What is it _now?” _he snaps. “Haven’t you done enough for one night?”

“No,” Michael says airily. “And you should really be more grateful, Archivist. I _ did _save you.”

_ “Save _ me?” Jon scoffs. “You — your _ door _ spat me out into the tunnels, _ alone —” _

“Not for long,” Michael adds.

Jon scowls. “Well. If you’d had your way, I would have _ stayed _alone,” he says darkly. “Probably would have died that way, too.”

Michael’s kaleidoscopic eyes gleam. “Yes.”

Jon swallows. “Why release Sasha, then?” he asks, his voice faltering. “Surely, you didn’t want her to meet the same fate that _ I _ would have.”

_ Michael... _ trapped _ her? _ Jane feels her hands clenching into fists. _ And it calls itself her “friend”... _

Michael tilts its head, neck bending at an unnatural angle; it studies Jon for a moment, its impish grin fading into something more solemn, almost grim. “She seems to think that you are better than what you are becoming, Archivist,” it says. “I didn’t quite believe her... but given the circumstances, I thought it only fair to give you a chance to prove it to me.”

Jon frowns. “What do you mean?”

Michael slinks out a little farther from behind the door, its spindly body unfolding up the wall and across the ceiling of Jon’s suddenly-cramped office. “You were not in as much danger as you like to think you were,” it says, sounding distinctly disappointed. “Unfortunately, Archivists are… not that easily disposed of.” Its gaze flits over each of them in turn. “Their assistants, however —”

Jane glares back. “Where’s Sasha?” she demands. _ If it’s taken her again — _

“Oh, _ I _ don’t have her, Flesh Hive,” Michael says archly. Then it pauses, as if relishing the suspense. _ “But. _ I know who _ does.” _

_ No. _ Jane’s head swims as a memory of cold, bright eyes strangling her screams sends thousands of needles stabbing through her scarred skin. _ No — not him — not her — he _ can’t _ have her — _

“What has Elias done to her?” Jane chokes out. _ He can’t — but he _would — 

“Nothing permanent. Not like the Librarian.” Michael’s tone is deceptively light, but its eyes have darkened. “And he won’t. If you can reach her before he reaches _ in.” _

Reeling around, Jane looks at Jon desperately. 

Jon’s face is full of horror and devoid of hope. “We _ can’t,” _ he says. “Elias’ office is two flights up; there’s no way we’ll get there in time. And even if we _ could, _he —” His voice cracks. “He’ll have seen us coming and —”

Michael interrupts him. “And _ that _ is where you’re _ wrong, _Archivist.”

Jon blinks, surprise and suspicion warring on his face. “... Why is that?”

Michael folds its misshapen hands together before it. “The Overseer may watch his Institute with many eyes, but my presence here is a grain of sand in every single one.” It smiles, smug and sly. “And _ my _corridors cannot be spied on so easily.”

Jon’s eyes narrow, suspicion giving way to sheer hostility.

“Should have seen that one coming,” Tim mutters, but his tone is more defeated than dry.

“How do we know you’re telling the truth about Sasha and Elias?” Martin asks, his voice wavering. “And if you are and if we _ do _use your door, how can we be sure that you’ll let us back out again?”

Michael throws back its head and laughs, the gleeful sound reverberating eerily in Jane’s ears and rattling around in her skull. “You can’t,” it says. “I _ am _the throat of delusion. My nature is to lie and decieve; none who know me trust me.”

“But Sasha did,” Jane says suddenly. 

For a moment, Michael’s form stutters and flares with color, like static between channels on an old television. Then Michael abruptly snaps back into focus, but it seems smaller and sadder than before, barely reaching the height of its door. “Yes,” it says, its voice now soft and surprisingly clear.

Jane gnaws on her lip, uncertain of how to respond. She doesn’t know why Sasha ever trusted — _ no, _ trusts; _ she’s not gone; she can’t be gone for good — _ something that so openly proclaims its deceit, but Sasha does. _ And she may be the only person that ever has. _

She scrutinizes Michael. Though its body is distorted, all sharp angles and eye-watering static, Michael is still recognizable as something human — or _ almost _ human, or just human enough. Even though Leitner had called the Distortion a manifestation of the Spiral, Jane is strangely convinced that the Distortion — that _ Michael — _was once wholly human.

_ Once, that might have been me, _ she thinks, swallowing. _ If the Hive had a stronger hold. _

Michael’s smile fades. “How does it feel?” it asks, in that same soft, clear voice, as if it’s trying to soothe rather than unsettle. “To be Hive no longer, but once again flesh?”

Jane thinks. Closing her eyes briefly, she takes stock of every physical sensation she’s feeling: every ache, every pain, every wound the Hive has inflicted on her. But despite it all, her heart is beating strong and steady — and deep beneath her skin, within her bones, her marrow lies undisturbed by the itch she’d endured for so long.

At last, she is alone in her body.

“Quiet,” Jane finally says. “It’s… just me now.” But as she speaks, she’s keenly aware of the presences of Martin and Tim on either side of her, and of Jon behind her — and of Sasha, somewhere above her. 

_ … But it’s not as lonely as I thought it would be. _

Tamping down what remains of her fear, Jane takes a deep breath and meets Michael’s eyes as best she can. “So,” she says. “Your door can get us to Sasha?”

Silence, heavy as a pall, hangs over Elias’ office. It presses down on her, shrouding her prickling skin and driving the needles deeper in, shackling her trembling, tensing muscles, smothering the scream rising in her throat: keeping her still, senseless, _ scared. _

All Sasha can do is stare back, pinned under that cold, gleaming gaze.

Then Elias sighs, breaking the spell. “You _ can _ sit, if you like,” he says mildly.

Her knees buckle almost instantly, and Sasha collapses into Elias’ desk chair, her whole body shaking. Though her head swims and her spine droops, she clenches her hands around the armrests and forces herself upright.

The first things she sees as she lifts her head are a pair of cufflinks, shining on the desk next to a neatly folded suit jacket and the whirring tape recorder with its box of tapes. Then her eyes travel upward to Elias, standing calm as can be before his desk with his shirtsleeves precisely rolled up — and holding the pipe from the tunnels, now red with more than rust.

From where she’s sitting, Sasha can’t see Leitner: only the slowly spreading pool of blood on the carpet and a few scattered droplets flecking Elias’ waistcoat and tie. She feels suddenly, guiltily relieved at that realization.

Elias’ unnervingly even voice cuts through her thoughts. “I will admit, I’m a little surprised to see _ you _here, Sasha,” he says. “I was under the impression you were the most sensible of the Archives staff.”

Sasha frowns. “You — you couldn’t see me before?”

Elias’ mouth flattens in displeasure. “Between your friend the Distortion outstaying its welcome and the Not-Them taking up residence in Artifact Storage, my vision has been a bit clouded of late. But, no longer.” He smiles, but his satisfaction doesn’t reach his eyes. “Speaking of, where _ is _the Not-Them? The tunnels, I’m assuming?”

Sasha tenses, half-expecting the answers to come tumbling off her tongue on their own. But her mouth hangs open, and nothing happens.

“I’m no longer compelling you, Sasha; I see no reason for this conversation to become uncivil,” Elias says patiently, patronizingly. “You can give me whatever answer you see fit.”

_ And what if you don’t like my answer? _ Sasha almost asks, but she bites her question back; she has a gnawing feeling it could be something Elias would consider _ uncivil._ “It — it’s in the tunnels,” she says dully. “Trapped.”

“I see.” Eyebrows raised, Elias glances downwards. “At least you did _ something _ useful, Jurgen,” he remarks.

The only response from Leitner is a feeble groan.

With a shorter, more irritated sigh, Elias tosses the pipe aside and begins briskly rolling his shirtsleeves back down. “Nevertheless,” he muses, more to himself than to Sasha, “this whole situation_ has _become a good deal messier than planned.”

_ “What _ plan?” The question slips out before Sasha can stop herself.

Elias pauses halfway through straightening a cuff and glances over at her, a sudden glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “Well,” he says, _ “that _ doesn’t especially concern you. But what _ does —” _he finishes adjusting his shirtsleeves and reaches for the cufflinks on his desk “— is how this wreck of a night is going to be salvaged.” 

Sasha swallows. She isn’t sure she wants to know, but she has a horrible feeling it’s something she’s going to find out regardless. “... How?”

“I’m glad you asked.” Elias deftly refastens one cufflink, then the other. “You see, the Not-Them may be secure for now, but it _ staying _ in the tunnels is quite untenable. The Corruption has already done its part to destabilize the foundations, and I’m _ sure —” _ he looks down at Leitner again with disdain “— that whatever _ you’ve _ been doing down there with those books of yours hasn’t helped the structural integrity of the tunnels in the slightest.” Turning his attention back to the desk, he takes up his suit jacket. “And considering that preparations for the Unknowing are apparently underway, I’m hardly about to harbor a spy within my Institute.” Elias shakes the jacket out of its neatly folded state and slides it back on. “So: the Not-Them _ must _ be gotten rid of.”

“But — but Leitner trapped the Not-Them because he thought it couldn’t be killed,” Sasha says slowly. _ “Is _there a way to kill it?”

“Oh, I’m sure I could think of a way, given enough time, but we don’t have that luxury at the moment.” Bending down, Elias picks up Leitner’s blood-soaked satchel long enough to retrieve _ The Seven Lamps of Architecture _ and place it on the desk, then lets the empty satchel _ thud _ back onto the floor. “Besides, persuading it to leave is _ much _ easier.” He straightens up and folds his hands genteely behind his back, his bright, cold eyes once again boring into her. “It’s just a matter of giving it who it wants in return.”

Terror stabs through her ribs, seizing up her lungs and stopping her heart. And in the darkest depths of her mind, Sasha once again hears the hissing sing-song of the voice that had sounded so horribly like her, that wanted so badly to _ be _her.

_ “No —” _ Sasha tries to say, but her voice is small and shaking. “I — I _ won’t —” _

“I’m afraid you don’t have much of a choice in the matter.” Elias is still completely, chillingly calm. “And even _ if _ you had a choice — even _ if _ the Not-Them hadn’t set its sights on _ you _long before tonight — who would you choose to sacrifice in your stead? Martin? Tim?” He pauses, the gleam in his eye brightening. “Jane?”

Sasha’s throat tightens, and she bites down hard on her lip to keep herself from crying. _ Jane — Jane, I’m so sorry — I know I promised — _

“Exactly.” Elias tilts his head, his gaze still intensely focused on her. “If it makes you feel any better, I haven’t reached this decision lightly,” he says. “I’m loath to let the Stranger win this battle, but frankly, better you than Jon.” He shrugs. “He’s still alive and he’s on the right track; I think he can manage without an additional assistant, at least temporarily.”

Swallowing down the sob sticking in her throat, Sasha tries to speak again. “You _ can’t,” _she pleads. “Jon — he’ll know what you’ve done; they’ll all know — they won’t let you get away with this —”

“Only if they remember you,” Elias says matter-of-factly. He picks up _ The Seven Lamps _ from his desk and tucks it under his arm. “And _ if _ one of them does… well. I’ve found that memory is such a malleable thing.”

Unable to meet his gaze any longer, Sasha ducks her head as warm, stinging tears begin to crawl down her cheeks. _ This can’t be it. _ She tries to see where she’d left _ A Disappearance _ on the floor, but her wild hope dies at the sight of the pamphlet still under the desk and far out of her reach. _ I can’t — I don’t want to — _

“So you see, all that’s left for you to do is to come quietly.” Elias’ voice is still as even as ever, but there’s an edge to it that sets her skin prickling. “We wouldn’t want any unpleasantness, now, would we?”

A chill shoots down Sasha’s spine; she has no doubt as to what kind of _ unpleasantness _ he means. _ If I refuse — he can — he _will — 

_ — but I can’t just give in. _

Sasha screws her eyes shut, concentrating on pulling her fragile, frightened self back together. _ For once in your life, curiosity won’t help you here, _ she tells herself. _ This time, you really do need courage. _

So she thinks of Jon, of the fierce caring he keeps buried under his caustic wit, of his keen mind and his quick action. She thinks of Martin, of his steadfast devotion and his soft strength, and she thinks of Tim, of his easy grin and loud laugh that light up her world even in its darkest corners. 

And, even though it breaks her heart and makes her want to fall apart all over again, she thinks of Jane.

_ I love you, _ Sasha thinks desperately, hoping in vain that Jane might somehow hear her. _ If you remember me at all… remember that. _

“Well?” Elias prompts. “What will it be?”

Taking a deep breath, Sasha stands on shaking legs and slowly lifts her head to face him once again. “No,” she whispers.

Elias’ eyebrows arch, even as his gaze hardens. _ “‘No’?” _ he echoes.

Sasha swallows. Every muscle in her body is trembling and taut, tensed to flee, but she forces herself to stand her ground. “No,” she repeats, a little surer.

Elias stares at her for a long time, and it’s all Sasha can do to not shy away from his cold, pitiless gaze. His fingers clench slightly around the corners of _ The Seven Pillars, _but he is otherwise still and silent.

Then: _ “Come with me.” _

Before, Sasha had barely registered how his words had moved her without her even thinking about it, without feeling a thing. 

This time, she feels everything. 

Her whole body is wracked with agony as she’s suddenly, sharply skewered with needles that stab right through her skin and straight down to the bone. The force of his words crashes over her in an icy wave, plunging her mind deeper and deeper into total oblivion. Sasha opens her mouth to scream, to try and break the surface, but only a thin, helpless cry makes it out before the compulsion forces her whole being back down, choking her, _ drowning _ her — 

— and she hits the floor, hard.

Gasping and sobbing, Sasha tries to get up, but her arms are too weak and shaky to support her, and she almost falls back onto the carpet. One of her flailing hands lands in something warm and wet and sticky, and bile rises in her throat as she recognizes it as blood.

Struggling upright, Sasha realizes that she’s no longer behind the desk, but in front of it. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Leitner’s twitching, bloodied, barely breathing body: somehow still recognizable, somehow still clinging to life.

Then she sees the impeccably shined dress shoes in front of her and she recoils, her back slamming against the desk in her alarm.

Elias is looking down at her with an expression that instantly hollows out Sasha’s churning stomach. His eyes are still bright, but where they had once been cold, they are now ablaze with surprise and intrigue.

_ “Well,” _he breathes. “Look at you.”

Sasha’s own breath catches in her throat in fear.

A smile curves the corners of Elias’ mouth as he bends down. As he extends his hand to her, Sasha sees a flash of yellow over his shoulder.

And then there is a _ crack, _and Sasha’s world is spattered with red.

Jane has never heard a more satisfying sound than the one that rings in her ears when she slams the rusted, bloodied pipe she’d seized from the carpet into Elias’ skull.

Elias crumples at her feet. And Jane sees who he had been standing over.

“Sasha!” Stumbling over Elias’ prone body, Jane falls to the floor next to her, drops the pipe, and throws her arms around Sasha without a second thought. _ She’s alive — she’s _ alive _ — she’s still here — she’s with me — _

For a moment, Sasha tenses, her whole body trembling almost imperceptibly. Then, with a choked sob, Sasha seizes hold of her and buries her warm, wet face in the crook of Jane’s neck. “Jane,” she whispers, her voice raw and her breathing ragged. “Oh, God, _ Jane —” _

“I’m here.” Throat tightening, Jane strengthens her embrace, pulling a shaking, crying Sasha even closer. “I’m here now.”

From behind Jane comes a weak, labored rasp of a voice. “How —?”

“Oh, _ hell —” _Tim manages, stunned. “Leitner? How did —?”

“Elias —” Leitner croaks. “Is he —?”

There are two _ thuds _ behind her, one after the other, and Jane turns her head slightly to see Martin and Tim drop to their knees beside the bloody, beaten body that she now knows to be Leitner. They’re looking over him, but Jane sees in their horrified expressions that there’s nothing they can do to ease his pain — nothing they can do but behold it.

_ “Jesus,” _ Martin finally breathes. “All right, uh — look, stay there —” He manages to stand and fumble a cell phone out of his pocket. “I’ll call an ambulance —”

Martin’s panicked rambling is cut off by a quiet chuckle. Pins and needles prickle over Jane’s skin at the sound, and she lets go of Sasha to grab the pipe again.

“Well played.” Elias slowly pushes himself up from the floor. His once-neat hair is matted and sticky with oozing blood, and his eyes are dull and slightly bloodshot, but other than that, he is unnervingly unharmed. “Well played indeed.”

Jane is on her feet in an instant, pipe in both hands and ready to swing. “Don’t move,” she warns through gritted teeth.

“You’re not going anywhere, Elias.” Though Jon’s face is drawn and grey, he stands firm before the office door that is now no longer yellow. “So don’t try anything.”

Elias raises his hands, indicating surrender. “Of course not. Setting aside the fact that you have me quite outnumbered —” Jane sees his gaze flit from her, to Martin and Tim, to Jon “— you have questions.” He smiles. “And I very likely have answers.” 

Tim stands, glancing over at Jon. “Did anyone grab a tape before we —?”

“No need. There seems to be one already running.” Elias nods back at his desk, then looks back at Jon, that same blandly pleasant smile still on his face. “So: ask away.”

Jon stares at him for a long time, as if unsure of how to proceed. But when he speaks, his voice is lower, yet strangely clearer, and as cold and sharp as a knife. _ “Did you kill Gertrude Robinson?” _

Jane holds her breath, ignoring the sudden flaring of pins and needles across her skin.

After a moment, Elias exhales, his eyes bright once again. “That’s… that’s quite nice actually,” he remarks. “Tingly, but… sort of freeing.” He chuckles. “You know, even Gertrude never properly tried to compel me. I always wondered —”

“Just answer the question,” Tim interrupts, crossing his arms.

“Or don’t,” Jane adds darkly, bouncing the pipe off the palm of one hand.

“No need for threats,” Elias says lightly. “I’ll answer.” He shifts his position on the carpet, sitting slightly more upright. “Oh, and Jon — it’s also very important to me, in a personal capacity, that you understand I’m answering you of my own free will, and that no action I am taking or have taken has been controlled.” His smile is unchanged, but it now strikes Jane as extraordinarily sinister. “I have done everything because I wished to.”

Jon raises his eyebrows. “So?” he asks sharply. “That doesn’t change what you’ve done.”

Elias sighs, his smile fading. “You’ll learn the importance of the distinction one day,” he says. “But yes, Jon, I _ did _ kill Gertrude. And I _ would _ have killed Leitner —” he shoots a disdainful sidelong glance at the body on the floor beside him “— but I realized a little belatedly that I had an audience.”

Sasha swallows, fear lingering in her eyes.

“And Sasha?” Jane demands, her grip tightening around the pipe. “Were you going to kill her, too?”

Elias shrugs, the casual gesture at odds with his eerie composure. “Indirectly,” he admits. “True, I would have gotten Sasha back down to the tunnels, one way or another — but technically, the Not-Them would have been doing the killing.”

Jon’s eyes widen, appalled. Martin claps a hand over his mouth. Tim is glaring at Elias with a sudden anger that Jane feels blazing through her veins — a wrath that burns only more furiously when she sees Sasha: pale and silent and shaking, with tears and blood streaked across her face.

Jane raises the pipe again.

Elias’ cool voice cuts through the red clouding her mind. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“Why not?” Jane demands.

Elias smiles again, his eyes gleaming. “Self-preservation,” he says. “You see, the Institute belongs to the Eye. And you all belong to the Eye because you are bound to the Institute.” He casts his gaze around the room at each of them in turn, slow and deliberate. “You five are the fingers of the Institute’s hand — and _ I _am its beating heart.” He places one hand on his chest, over one of the larger bloodstains on his waistcoat. “And that means that should I, or the Institute, be destroyed, you will all, unfortunately, follow suit.”

For a single, shocked second, the only sound in Elias’ office is the whirring of the tape. Then it suddenly clicks off, and the silence is total.

Jon looks utterly aghast. “What —_ no —” _

“Oh, _ yes,” _ Elias says. “And it would not be a pleasant death.”

Jane is still holding the pipe aloft, but her arms are beginning to shake. “You’re lying.”

“Then kill me, if you’re so sure.” Elias tilts his head, studying her. “True, you may survive,” he muses. “Your eyes may be opening to a new master, but the Corruption _ has _ left its mark on you — and it may do you one last favor yet.”

Jane feels her mouth contort into a grimace. _ A “favor”? Is _ that _ what you’d call what it did to me? _

“But,” Elias continues, “even if that is the case, you will most certainly be killing everyone else in this room.” He pauses, and his eyes are brighter and colder than she has ever seen them before. “Including Sasha.”

Jane’s stomach twists at the thought, and she digs her heels into the carpet, suddenly feeling dizzy from the horrific force of the choice before her. The muscles in her arms are screaming from the effort of holding up the pipe for this long, and her hands are slippery with blood and sweat as they clench around the rusted metal. 

She still doesn’t want to let go of it: not when Elias is looking up at her, his eyes gleaming with undisguised triumph.

But Sasha is looking at her, too. And Jane feels her quietly, desperately pleading gaze far more keenly than Elias’.

The pipe slips from between her fingers and _ thuds _on the carpet.

“Good,” Elias says, his smile unbearably smug. “I’m glad we could settle this without resorting to further violence.”

“Fuck you,” Jane snarls, shaking with rage even as her voice cracks. “Fuck you and your fucking _ Eye —” _

Jon’s hand comes down on her shoulder, holding her back. Jane stills, though her fists are still clenched at her side. 

Jon glares at Elias. “Don’t think you’re getting away with this.”

“Oh?” Elias asks archly. “Why not?”

“We-ell,” Martin says slowly, approaching the desk, “last we checked, the police _ are _ still looking to arrest someone for Gertrude’s murder. And probably the attempted murder of Leitner, too: once they get here and discover _ that, _ anyway.” Opening up the tape recorder, he pulls out the tape inside with a flourish. “And I’m sure they’d just _ love _to hear this taped confession while they’re at it.”

The smile abruptly drops from Elias’ face. For a brief moment, he seems genuinely at a loss as he stares at Martin, and Jane relishes his sheer disbelief with all the spite she has left in her.

“Time passes _ really _ weirdly within Michael’s corridors,” Tim supplies helpfully; he seems to have gained the smug smile that Elias so suddenly lost. “But we had enough of it to come up with a decent backup plan.”

“One that_ you _ couldn’t see coming,” Martin finishes simply. Tucking the tape in his pocket, he unlocks his phone.

Elias finally reins in his shock, but his eyes are still narrow and cold. _“... Well,”_ he says. “I have to hand it to your assistants, Jon; they are full of surprises.” He casts a sidelong glance at Sasha, and Jane tenses as Sasha shrinks away. “I really should have spared some of the attention I paid to _you_ to keep a closer eye on_ them.”_

Jon frowns, suspicious. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, never you mind,” Elias dismisses. “You’ve _ won, _Jon — content yourself with that.” His gaze shifts to Jane, his smile as patronizing as ever. “Although I do realize it’s a cold comfort for some.”

Jane struggles to bite back a retort, a scream of frustration, _ everything _she wants to throw back in his face. Jon’s grip tightens on her shoulder, but she shakes his hand off and just glares at Elias.

Still smiling, Elias leans back, disquietingly at ease. “You might want to make yourself scarce before the police arrive, Jane,” he suggests. “Even with all of your planning, none of you seem to have thought of an explanation for my injuries — and that blood on your hands _ is _ remarkably suspicious.”

Jane bristles. She hates the thought of giving him the satisfaction of getting under her skin, but she’s unable to stand him any longer. 

So she turns on her heel and stalks towards the door, savagely kicking aside the pipe as she passes it, and pretends she doesn’t feel his eyes gleefully watching her go.

By the time Jane finally turns off the faucet of the sink in the Archives’ break room, her hands are no longer red and sticky, but pink and raw. Her knuckles are pale and cracked, on the verge of bleeding themselves, and she fruitlessly jabs at them with the corner of the damp paper towel for a few moments before remembering that Sasha has hand lotion in her desk drawer.

Then Sasha’s pale, tearful face flashes through her mind, and Jane finds herself reaching for the kitchenette cabinet above the sink and pulling out Martin’s first aid kit instead. Opening it and taking out the bottle of antiseptic, she soaks the paper towel in it and presses it down hard on her knuckles. It hurts, but not as much as the rage and remorse lancing through her heart.

_ I could have killed him. I _ would _ have killed him. _ Jane crumples the paper towel and hurls it in the wastebasket on her way out of the break room. _ But... I would have killed _her.

She doesn’t stop at any of the desks, Sasha’s least of all, and she doesn’t enter Jon’s office. Instead, Jane retreats into the shelves, turning sharply at the back of the Archives into the nook behind the secure file storage room.

Wreathed with what remains of the trapdoor, the entrance to the tunnels yawns open and unconcealed, but all is silent from within. Still, when Jane lets herself fall to the floor, she is careful not to sit too close.

Bringing her knees up to her chest, Jane leans her forehead on them and breathes, short and shaky. Once again, she sees Sasha’s stricken, fearful face behind her closed eyes — feels it pressed into her shoulder as she cries and clings to her — and for a moment, Jane so badly wants Sasha to be here with her once again: to hold her, to comfort her, to just be _ there _for her.

_ But why would she? _ she rebukes herself bitterly. _ She trusted me, _ loved _ me — and how did I repay her? How did I show her my love? _ Jane’s vision swims and stings, but her throat is too tight and her jaw is too stiff to cry. _ And what did I do to hers? _

_ She will never love me again. She will only ever fear me. _

Swallowing, Jane feels her gaze straying to the black square in the middle of the scuffed floorboards. All is still silent, but somewhere in the back of her mind, she knows it would be so _ easy _ — to crawl down into the tunnels, to prostrate herself before the broken circle among the dead worms, to _ beg _ to be taken _ back — _

_But there’s nothing left for me there. I know that now. _Jane lets out a long, trembling breath and leans her head back against the shelving. _The Hive is dead, and the Eye killed it — and claimed me_ _for itself, for its Institute._

_ But if _ she _ hates me... there’s nothing left for me _ here, _ either. _

Somewhere beyond the shelves, there’s an all-too-familiar creak of hinges. Jane slowly sits up, but keeps quiet as she strains her ears to listen in.

“Christ, I thought they’d never leave.” Tim’s voice, at once relieved and exasperated. “I mean, the paramedics hauled Leitner out quickly enough, but Detective Tonner was sniffing around Elias’ office far too long for my liking.”

“Well, they’re gone now. And so is Elias.” Jon’s tone is firm, but grim. “And hopefully, we won’t see him again for a very long time — or ever.”

A pause. “Aren’t you worried, though?” Martin asks quietly. “I mean, Elias didn’t seem… all that fazed to be _ arrested. _ What if he gets out of custody later somehow, or — or what if this is all just part of some plan of his, and we just — just _ played _ into his hand?” 

A weary sigh. “No, Martin, I — I _ am _ worried about that,” Jon admits. “I mean, while those officers that came tonight _ were _ Sectioned, and they’ve all probably dealt with a _ lot… _ I don’t know if they’ve ever handled someone quite like Elias.” An unexpected snort. “In any case, Daisy made it _ very _ clear to Elias that his continued cooperation was essential to the continued integrity of his kneecaps, so if Elias _ is _ going to try anything, he’d be wise to bide his time.”

“At least until Detective Tonner turns her back,” Tim says dryly. “She is _ not _ someone I’d want to mess with.” 

“Yes, Daisy is, uh….” Jon hesitates. “Well, she _ is _ a little intense.”

Another, longer pause. “So… what happens with the Institute now?” Sasha asks: straightforward as ever, but subdued. “I mean, Elias isn’t dead and the Institute is still standing, but… he can’t exactly run the place from a cell.”

“That’s a good point,” Martin says. “I’d be really surprised if Elias didn’t have a backup plan for _ that.” _

_ “If _he ever anticipated us getting him arrested, anyway,” Tim adds. “Who knows? He might not have tapped a replacement.”

“Either way, it’s not a problem for tonight,” Jon says. There’s another creak of hinges, presumably of his office door. “We can worry about that — and everything else — next week.”

“‘Next week’?” Martin echoes. “Jon, today’s _ Thursday. _ We’ve still got one day of —” He stops, suddenly catching on. “Unless we… just _ don’t _come back in until Monday.”

“That _ was _my thinking, yes.” Jon hesitates. “I — we — well, a lot’s gone on. It… might do us some good to take a break before we… dive into things.”

“Jon? Taking a _ break?” _Jane can almost hear Tim’s widening grin. “Unheard of!”

_ “Really, _ Tim?” Jon asks flatly. “I thought _ you’d _ be more pleased by the prospect.”

“Oh, I am by _ no _ means criticizing your leadership decisions; I think we’ve earned a three-day weekend,” Tim declares. “Plus, who’s going to get on our case for it? _ Elias?” _

Jon almost laughs at that, but quickly sobers. “Sasha?” he asks. “What is it?”

Jane tenses.

“Um —” Sasha sighs. “Don’t — don’t get me wrong; I am _ all _in favor of getting out of here until Monday, but…” Her voice trails off, growing smaller and more unsure. “After everything that’s happened, I — I really don’t want to be alone right now —”

“Of course not,” Martin says earnestly. “I mean… I don’t think it would be a good idea for _ any _of us to be alone right now.”

Jon hums in wordless agreement.

“Let’s all go to your place for the night, then,” Tim suggests. “You’re still living off Victoria, right? Finsbury Park?” Sasha must have nodded silently, because Tim continues. “Yeah, we can all get there from here, no problem.”

Sasha exhales shakily. “Thank you,” she manages. “I’m sorry; I just —”

“Hey, hey, _ hey: _don’t worry,” Tim says, surprisingly gentle. “We’re all in this now. We need to look out for each other.”

Sasha sniffs. “... Yeah,” she whispers, her voice cracking.

There’s a brief rustling, then another creak of hinges as the office door closes. “Ready when you all are,” Jon says.

“Right; give me _ just _a minute —” Footsteps as Martin crosses to his desk. 

Another set of footsteps, less hurried and more unsteady, followed by the creak of a swivel chair. “You guys can go on ahead,” Sasha says quietly. “I’ll catch up; I just — I need a moment first.”

A third set of footsteps halts. “You sure?” Tim asks, concerned. “We can wait for you in the lobby or —”

“I’m sure,” Sasha assures him, but she doesn’t sound too certain. “I won’t be long. And you know where to go.”

Another pause. “... Okay,” Martin says softly.

“We’ll walk slowly,” Tim adds, almost joking, but the worried note to his voice remains.

“Thanks.” Sasha’s voice is almost too quiet for Jane to hear.

The footsteps continue on, albeit a bit awkwardly, accompanied by more faintly swishing sounds of bags being grabbed and coats being pulled on. Then the footsteps change direction, away from the shelves and the desks, and the door to the Archives creaks open and closed.

For a moment, the Archives are utterly silent. Then, from the desks, comes the muffled sound of hitching, uneven breath. 

Jane frowns. Slowly getting to her feet, she turns away from the broken trapdoor and the tunnels beyond and creeps back the way she came.

She finds Sasha sitting at her desk, slumped over the papers and files strewn across it. Her arms are cradled around her head, hiding her face from view, and her back seizes and shudders as she cries without almost any sound.

Jane freezes at the end of the aisle, unsure of what to say or do. _ Will she even want to see me after all this? _ she wonders. _ Or will she just turn me away, scorn me and leave me like so many others? _

But she still finds herself taking another step towards her. “Sasha?”

Sasha gasps. She bolts upright and out of her seat, whirling around, but then she sees Jane and stills. There’s no longer blood on her face, but her cheeks are still blotchy and her glasses are smudged with tears.

Jane swallows. “How — how are you doing?” she finally manages.

Sasha shrugs helplessly. “… About as well as can be expected.”

Jane takes another cautious step forward. “Are you hurt?”

Sasha exhales, short and sharp. Her eyes flicker away for an instant, and a new tear runs down her cheek.

Jane almost shrinks back, but she forces herself to stay where she is. _ No hiding now. _ “Sasha… I’m sorry.”

Sasha blinks, as if confused. “For what?”

Jane stares at her in disbelief._ “Sasha,” _ she says, struggling to keep her voice steady, “I could have killed you. If I’d killed _ Elias —” _ Her voice breaks in anger at the mention of his name, but she bitterly soldiers on. “All I wanted to do was make him pay, make him _ hurt, _ and I almost _ did, _ and I —”

Sasha’s eyes widen. “Jane —”

“I didn’t want to hurt you; I _ didn’t.” _ Desperation and despair claw at Jane’s chest. “And I never want to hurt you again. Sasha, _ please —” _ she begs. “Please believe me — I’m _ so _ sorry — I don’t want you to be afraid of me —”

Without warning, Sasha closes the distance between them. Throwing her arms around Jane’s waist, she presses herself tightly against her and doesn’t let go. Jane stands there for a moment, stunned and speechless, then slowly raises her arms and wraps them around Sasha’s shoulders, pulling her in even closer.

Sasha lifts her head from where it had fallen on Jane’s shoulder; her eyes are still red and watery, but the look in them is unspeakably tender. _ “Jane,” _ she says, “I’m _ not _afraid of you.”

Jane is suddenly breathless, struck dumb by the sheer emotion in Sasha’s gaze. _ She’s not afraid of me, _ she repeats to herself, scarcely able to believe it. _ She doesn’t hate me. _

Then it suddenly occurs to her, her heartbeat quickening at the thought. _ Does that mean —? _

Despite the tears still shimmering on her face, a small smile touches Sasha’s lips. Her hands fall away from Jane’s waist, trailing lightly up her shoulders and lacing around the back of her neck. They are cool and smooth and gentle, and the love and care in their touch is all that Jane wants.

Before she can overthink this, too, Jane lets herself fall.

Sasha’s mouth is soft and warm, and even with some lingering salt from her tears, Jane swears she tastes sweet. Her heartbeat throbs dizzyingly through her skull, and, almost intoxicated, she finds herself sliding a hand up Sasha’s spine to the nape of her neck, threading her fingers through her hair and pulling her deeper into their kiss. This is hunger, and this is longing, and this is love, and she is _ home, _ and this is everything Jane has ever felt like never before.

After what seems like an instant and an eternity, Sasha’s mouth slips away, but her whole face seems to glow as she gazes at Jane. “You heard me,” she breathes. “In the tunnels. I —”

_ “Yes,” _ Jane whispers. Both of her hands are cupping Sasha’s head now, tracing the line of her jaw with boundless fascination; she kisses Sasha again, then again, unable to get enough of her. “And it saved me. _ You _saved me.”

Color floods Sasha’s cheeks, and she looks away for a moment, almost shy. 

“It’s true,” Jane insists.

Sasha meets her gaze once more, her expression newly earnest. “I know,” she says simply. “But you also saved _ me.” _

Unexpectedly, Jane feels her own face heating up.

Sasha’s smile widens. It is the most radiant thing Jane has ever seen, and she can’t help but smile back.

Unlacing her hands from around the back of Jane’s neck, Sasha takes both of her hands, still looking her in the eye. “Come with me,” she says, almost pleading. “Come with us. Don’t stay here tonight.”

Jane’s fingers curl tightly around Sasha’s hands, but she feels nothing but tension in her grasp.

Sasha senses her hesitation. “Elias isn’t here anymore,” she says quietly. “He can hardly hold you prisoner here like he used to.”

Jane snorts. “No,” she says dryly. “He’s found a new way.”

“You know what I mean,” Sasha chides. She takes a step back towards her desk, gently pulling Jane along with her. “We might all be bound to the Eye, but… you don’t have to stay _ in _ the Institute if you don’t want to.”

Jane considers it. It doesn’t take her long. “I don’t want to stay,” she confesses. “I want to be with you.” _ Anywhere. Always. _

Sasha nods, still smiling. Briefly letting go of Jane’s hands, she turns around and grabs her coat and scarf from the back of her desk chair. She pulls on her coat, but then pauses and holds the scarf — her favorite scarf, made of fawn-colored wool patterned in a red and navy plaid — out to Jane.

Jane takes the scarf and wraps it around her neck; the wool has a pleasant warmth and weight to it, and she instantly feels more secure with it on. But as the scarf settles around her shoulders, her heart is aglow as well.

Sasha shrugs her tote bag onto one shoulder, then holds her free hand out to Jane. Jane winds her hand around Sasha’s hand, almost curling her entire arm around Sasha’s arm as well; pressing her shoulder into Jane’s, Sasha just squeezes her hand in response.

Together, they walk towards the door to the Archives, then let it fall shut behind them as they go. Together, they slowly ascend the basement stairs to the high-ceilinged, pillared atrium at the summit. Together, they cross the silent hall to the double doors leading out into the night. 

Sasha pushes open one of the doors and steps out. She turns around, the illumination of the streetlamps catching the rain that’s speckling her glasses, but she doesn’t pull Jane out along with her and she doesn’t say a word: just smiles, warm and encouraging, and waits.

Keeping her gaze fixed on Sasha, Jane crosses the threshold. 

The dry, stale atmosphere of the Institute is suddenly replaced by night wind and chill rain. She breathes it in deeply, feeling new air rush into and fill up her lungs, and it feels like regeneration, like rebirth.

And for the first time in months — _ years — _Jane tilts her head back and, eyes closed, lets the rain wash her clean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**CW:** Threat of death, intentional and malicious mind control, pipe bludgeoning._
> 
> ... And that's a wrap! But I assure you, this AU isn't going anywhere, because I currently have ideas for at least _five_ more (considerably shorter) fics set in this particular AU. I have no idea when any of them will come to fruition, because it'll take me some time to piece together a timeline/outline/actually write, but bottom line is: if you want to read more, [subscribe to this series,](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1566694) because there _will_ be more!
> 
> Since I promised back in Chapter 8 that I'd share the playlist I made for this fic, [here it is](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/01LGIrKmRUbx2hyaOMpFYt?si=Tvyhq0YZR12allLhKaKnrA)! Also, here's even _more_ [fantastic art](https://numinousnic.tumblr.com/post/613291307563171840) for this fic, courtesy of [@charlottecranor-liu](https://charlottecranor-liu.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> And as always, [my Tumblr](https://numinousnic.tumblr.com/) is open for questions/comments/cries of outrage/screaming in general! (Also, once I get started on those new fics, that's the first place you'll hear about it.)
> 
> Happy end of hiatus! And once again, thank you all for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos — it thrills me to know that you all have enjoyed reading this fic as much as I've loved writing it!


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